UC-NRLF 


B  3  3is  na 


c. 


CASSIA 


And  Other  Verse 


By 
EDITH  M.  THOMAS 

Author  of  "  The  Dancers  and  other  Legends 
and  Lyrics"  etc 


BOSTON:  RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

<£5orf)am 
1905 


Copyright  1904  by  EDITH  M.  THOMAS 
All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  AT 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 

BOSTON,   U.   S.   A. 


AD  MUNDUM 

Into  a  world  of  loveliness, 
Into  a  world  of  wonder  sent 

(Which  one  by  loving  shah  possess), 
No  loveless  moment  have  I  spent: 

If  Life  but  failed  when  Love  went  by, 

Then  never,  never  should  I  die! 


M539SO 


CONTENTS 


Page 
CASSIA  .  .  .          .  .9 

A  PORTRAIT  BEFORE  DEATH    .  .  .  .20 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  FORGOTTEN  THINGS         .  .        27 

MOBILITE  .  .  .  .  .28 

THE  CHILD  HEART      .  .  .  .28 

A    SNOW   YEAR  .  .  .  .  .29 

THE  SEA  AND  THE  STAR        .  .  .  .        30 

THE  DARK  BEFORE  DAWN      ....        30 

THE  DRYAD  OF  THE  ORCHARD  .  .  .        31 

A-PEU-PRES      .  .  .  .  .  .32 

CLEAVE  TO  THINE  ACRE         /          .  .  .'33 

THE  UNLEAFED  BEECH  .  .  .  .34 

THE  SPRINGS  OF  LONG  AGO    .  .  .  .35 

AN    EASTER    FANTASY  .  .  .  .36 

A  COCOON         ...  .  .  37 

THE   BURDEN   OF   AGE  .  .  .  .38 

IN    PENUMBRA  ....  .39 

ART  IN  A  SORDID  AGE  .  .  .  .        39 

To  A  FLORENTINE  DIAL         .  .  .  .39 

THE  MEDITATION  OF  AN  EARLY  CHRISTIAN  .       40 

THE  SOUL  UNWEARIED  .  <  ...       41 

THE  LITTLE   SISTER    .....       42 

WHITE  CLOVER  .  .  .  .  .       43 

AT  THE  CATAMOUNT  TAVERN  .  .  .43 

THE  BANNERED  STREET  .  .  .  .45 

ON  THE  EVE  OF  WAR  .  .  .  .46 

THE  SEA  FIGHT          .  .          .  .  .       47 

THE  BRONZES  OF  EPIRUS        .  .  .  .49 

THE  FULL  CUP  .  ...  .  .50 

THE  BIRD'S  LOVER        .  .  .  .  .51 

TRANSMIGRANTS  .  .  .  .  -53 

AT  LETHE'S  BRINK      .....        55 

LOVE  UNUTTERED  ....        57 

THE    DEAD    BIRTHDAY  ....       38 


Page 

THE  THROBBING  OF  THE  AIR           .  .  .        58 

THE  COURAGE  OF  THE  LOST    .           .  .  .59 

AVALON  —  FAIR    AVALON        .           .  60 
THE  DANCE  OF  THE  SEASONS 

SONNETS 

NEW  HORIZONS            .           .           .  .  .65 

A    THANKFUL    SOJOURNER    .           .  .  .66 

THE  TIDE  OF  THE  PAST         .           .  .  .67 

THE  BLESSED  PRESENT           .           .  67 

THE   NESTING   PLACE  .  .  .  -    /   .        68 

RECEPTIVITY                  .           .  ^  .68 

WHEN,   MUSE?            .                      .  .  .69 

REVIVAL   OF    ROMANCE           .         ...  .  .        69 

REPROOF  FROM  THE  MUSE      .            .  r  .70 

THE  LIFE-MASK  OF  KEATS    .           .  .  .       70 

THE  BREATH  OF  HAMPSTEAD  HEATH  .  .71 

THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS           .           .  71 

OLD-WORLD    BRIDGES   .           .           .  .  .        72 

THE    DUOMO    .           .           .           .  .  .        72 

THE  CATHEDRAL  MURMUR    .          '.  .  .       73 

THE  CAVES  OF  THE  COVENANTER      .  ".  .74 

OUT  OF  A  THOUSAND                     '.  .  .74 

To  ONE  WHO  SLEEPS  ....  .       75 

THE  MIRAGE  OF  THE  HOMESICK        .  .  .75 

DUAL    HOMESICKNESS           .           .  .  .76 

SPEAKING   THE    SHIPS           .           .  .  .76 

THE  GENIUS  OF  THE  CITY    .           .  .  .77 

CITY    VISTAS    .           .           .           .  .  .'77 

LOST    CHILDREN           .           .           .  78 

THE  FRIENDSHIP  OF  THE  STORM        .  .  .78 

THE  VERGE  OF  TEARS           .           .  .  .79 

THE    MASTER-CHARM             .           .  .  -79 

THE  FIRST  FIRE  OF  THE  SEASON      .  .  .80 

THE  WINTER  THOUGHTS  OF  TREES    .  .  .81 
RESTLESS    ATOMS         .....        81 

FOOL'S  GOLD  82 


Page 

MERIDIAN          .           .           .  .83 

THE  SECURITY  OF  DESOLATION  .  .       84 

A  TALKING  RACE       .           .  .  .           .        84 

SPEECH    AND    SILENCE           .  .  .,-        .       85 

FROM    LIPS   OF   STONE           .  .  ,           .       85 

OVER  THE   BRINK        .           .  .  .           .        86 

To  IGNORANCE  .           .           .  »  .86 

PEACE                .','".  *  .87 
ELUSIVE  PRESENCE      .....       87 

WHERE              .           .  .88 

FAR  OTHERWHERE        .  .88 

MEMORY  AND  THE  FULL  MOON  .  .           .89 


CASSIA 

(From  Zola's  "Rome") 

There  were,  in  meadows  of  the  Trebizond 

(So  runs  the  fable),  certain  treacherous  flowers 

Whose  honey,  like  a  fell  magician's  wand, 
Bore  spells  to  steal  away  the  sentient  powers 

Of  him  who  tasted  in  some  moment  fond ; 
And  henceforth  knew  he  never  lucid  hours: 

Such  poison  fragile  flower-cups  might  distill, 

And  bees  might  gather  of  their  errant  will. 

Oh,  wherefore  should  the  venomed  sweetness  tole, 
While  nectarous   Summer's   harmless   stores   are 
spurned ! 

Oh,  wherefore  should  the  wavering,  bee-like  soul 
On  Fate's  light  breath   descend,   where,   undis- 
cerned, 

Its  dearest  bane  shall  smile  away  control ! 
Nor,  till  the  wasting  flesh  shall  lie  inurned, 

Shall  soar  again  the  spirit's  winged  fire, 

Freed  from  the  desolation  of  desire ! 

But  I  delay.     Too  long  reprieve  I  crave. 

Then,  let  me  summon  forth  all  hardihood 
For  these  dark  annals  of  the  Tiber  wave.     . 

The  palace  of  the  Boccaneras  stood 
Where  almost  might  the  auburn  current  lave 

Its  walls,  but  that,  in  tender  dreamy  mood, 
Between  the  ripple  and  the  frowning  stone 
A  little  garden  did  with  grace  atone. 

Therein  —  what  matters  it  what  flowers  did  blow, 
And  spake  a  dual  tongue  to  those  might  read, 

In  shy  perfume,  or  dyes  that  frankly  glow, 
Of  love  naive,  or  veiled  hearts  that  bleed  ? 


»     •»»..»„•»  t:>,»»»  '       *     /_    *"*    % 

Some  orange  trees  there  were,  a  careless  row ; 

A  leaning  olive  here,  and  lest,  indeed, 
Should  Love  and  Life  forget  their  chiefest  dread, 
A  cypress  threw  the  Shadow  of  the  Dead. 

Close  by,  among  some  laurels,  one  might  hear 
A  slender  stream  descend,  yet  scarce  might  see. 

Its  crystal  laughters  parted  lips  austere, 
And  mocked  its  stony-browed  Melpomene. 

Its  every  drop  might  well  have  been  a  tear, 
Yet  from  those  lips  it  fell  in  truant  glee, 

To  play  at  Lethe  in  a  pagan  tomb, 

Carved  with  relief  of  Iphianassa's  doom. 

Ay,  but  to  turn  the  whetted  azure  blade 
That  thirsted  to  be  slaked  in  crimson  life, 

A  goddess  bent,  a  staying  hand  was  laid, 
And  a  white  hart  appeased  the  cruel  knife. 

So  fared  it  not  with  our  Italian  maid, 

Whose  lines  were  cast  amid  the  lurid  strife 

Of  crown  and  mitre,  in  the  Caesars'  home, 

Called  once,  and  ever  called,  Imperial  Rome! 

The  palace  of  the  Boccaneras  stood, 
A  builded  theft  of  marbles  reft  away 

From  storied  walls  that  cover  many  a  rood, 
That,  desolated  though  they  be,  yet  sway 

Our  spirits  with  a  sense  of  plenitude 
Of  power,  of  majesty,  beyond  decay. 

That  theft,  in  part,  was  Colossean  stone 

Had  heard  the  early  Christian's  parting  groan. 

Marble  the  door-case,  now  of  ivory  stain; 

Stout  ribs  of  curving  iron  the  windows  wore; 
And  here,  enniched,  in  robe  of  satin  grain, 

The  Virgin  downward  smiled  for  evermore; 
And  there,  a  shield,  above  the  grated  pane, 

The  emblem  of  the  the  Boccaneras  bore: 


10 


Beneath  a  fiery  dragon,  winged-paced, 
Was  bocca  nera,  alma  rossa,  traced. 

And  half  the  legend  well  I  know  was  true 
Of  her,  sole  daughter  of  that  ancient  race. 

Red  fountain-fires  supplied  the  life  that  flew 
Along  the  veins  and  lit  the  ardent  face. 

So  will  ye  think  when,  sometime,  ye  shall  view 
Her  portrait,  touched  with  never-aging  grace, 

'Mong  others  of  the  eld,  grown  dim  and  chill; 

A  rosy  spirit  breathes  about  it  still. 

There  dwelt  she  with  a  father  she  revered, 
And  with  the  memory  of  a  mother  gone 

Too  soon,  who  in  Madonna  dreams  appeared,  — 
In   those   young   dreams   that,   smiling,    fade   at 
dawn. 

A  brother,  too,  was  hers,  beloved,  yet  feared; 
For  zeal  fanatic  held  his  heart  in  pawn, 

And  poison,  from  the  antique  pride  distilled, 

Reined  in  his  youth,  and  kindly  impulse  chilled. 

Her  eighteenth  year  sweet  Cassia  had  not  passed 
When  her  impassioned  soul  was  led  along, 

First,  under  gossamer  gyves  of  fancy  cast, 
That  soon  transmuted  were  to  fetters  strong ; 

And  whom  she  loved  the  first,  she  loved  the  last. 
Though  shadowed  by  some  far  ancestral  wrong 

Wrought  by  her  own,  or  by  her  lover's,  line 

Their  hearts  agreed,  Forgiveness  is  divine. 

Their  hearts  agreed,  their  lips  thereto  set  seal; 

But  Fate  far  kindlier  by  them  had  dealt 
Just  here  to  part  the  twain.     No  such  appeal. 

For  Flavio,  of  the  Corradini,  dwelt 
This  side  the  Tiber;  and  small  boats  can  steal 

Their  way  at  eve  and  in  the  shadow  melt, 


ii 


That  friendly  trees  extend  far  down  their  banks, 
While  Love,  plying  a  muffled  oar,  gives  thanks. 

Moreover,  down  a  terrace  garden-stair, 
Amid  the  selfsame  shadows,  one  may  glide 

With  such  wise  stealth  that  none  shall  be  award 
The   very   flowers,    that  something   might   have 
sighed, 

To  secrecy  did  their  young  mistress  swear. 
And  now,  upon  the  sleepy  Tiber  tide, 

They  drift  along,  they  two  alone,  alone, 

As  in  a  little  planet  of  their  own. 

Soon  were  they  passing  where  the  Tiber  curled 
Round  Ponte  Rotto's  shattered  piers  that  seem 

A  giant  wreck,  thither  by  flood-tide  hurled, 
Or  cliffy  temple  builded  in  mid-stream. 

So,  past  the  ruins  of  a  bygone  world, 

Dream-like  they  glide,  lost  in  a  tender  dream. 

I  think  of  them  as  of  the  singing  wren, 

That  haunts  those  roofless  halls  of  vanished  men. 

Yet,  oft  enough  the  sigh  went  with  the  kiss, 

And    oft    enough,    with    tightening   hands,    they 
owned 

That,  ere  their  time,  for  paradise  like  this, 
Both  man  and  maiden  had  with  life  atoned. 

"Ay,  both!"  cried  Cassia,  "  never  shall  one  miss 
The  other,  or  by  other  here  be  moaned !  " 

She  spake  of  those  who,  in  the  older  day, 

Could  not  have  loved  so  much,  yet  showed  the  way. 

Dear  women  had  there  been,  of  her  own  name, 
Who  had  the  copy  fair  to  her  revealed: 

Was  there  not  Sigismonda,  who  became 

A  page  to  her  own  knight,  and  last,  his  shield 

From  Paynim  arrows  tipped  with  venomous  flame? 


12 


Costanza,  too,  that  seeds  of  death  concealed 
Within  a  smiling  wine,  and  drank  thereof, 
And  won  to  drink,  the  slayer  of  her  love ! 

Then,  in  fond  rivalry,  would  Flavio  tell 
Of  certain  of  his  house  in  days  agone, 

Who  had  for  love  done  martyrly  and  well; 
He  read,  at  random,  from  the  rubric  drawn: 

"  To  ransom  her  he  loved,  did  Guido  sell 

His  freedom,  nor  for  ten  years  saw  the  dawn; 

And  Hugo,  likewise,  with  wild  beasts  had  fought." 

"  Our  loves,"  she  said,  "  may  set  all  these  at  naught. 

"And  afterwards,  the  saints  will  let  us  meet 

Where  we  have  naught  to  dread,  in  yon  dear 
star." 

To  which  would  Flavio  answer:    "  But,  my  sweet, 
Safe  places  on  the  good  earth  surely  are; 

My  cousin  is  the  master  of  a  fleet, 

He  comes  next  month,  and  Ostia  is  not  far. 

Some  evening  like  to  this,  down  stream  we  slip, 

And  in  the  harbor  find  Eugenio's  ship. 

"  Thy  vesper  star  —  we'll  find  it,  far  awest, 
When,  some  near  morrow  day,  a  favoring  wind 

Shall  drive  us  fleeting  o'er  the  billowy  crest. 
Why  else  did  our  great  Genoese  seek  the  Ind 

But  to  spy  out  for  us  a  secret  nest  ? 

There  will  we  live ;  nor  shall  our  hairs  be  thinned, 

Nor  eyes  meet  eyes  less  bright,  if,  in  good  sooth, 

A  certain  knight  hath  found  the  Fount  of  Youth !  " 

So  built  Love's  brave  artificer,  nor  knew 
If  more  in  earnest  or  in  jest  he  were. 

Meanwhile,  the  mirage  of  their  future  grew 
Less  shadow,  and  a  hope  began  to  stir 

In  both  their  hearts  to  bid  sour  Fate  adieu ! 
But  one  chief  fear  to  Cassia  would  recur: 


"  My  brother's  glance  of  late  is  passing  keen  — 
It  must  be  Ercole  hath  something  seen!  " 

Too  true  her  fears ;  for  even  while  she  spake, 
And  while  the  little  boat  to  moorage  slid, 

Were  eyes  that  watched,  most  cruelly  awake; 
Some  keen  malignity  her  Eden  hid  ; 

She  felt  it  as  the  bird  feels,  'mid  the  brake, 
The  coiled  terror!     Now,  her  footsteps  thrid 

The  garden  mazes;  now,  an  instant,  stay, 

Caught  in  some  vine  that  trails  across  the  way. 

Grim  dreams  are  hers,  if  dreams  at  all  she  hath  ; 

And  with  the  morn  a  letter  comes  with  speed, 
Its  seal  the  dragon  darting  fiery  scath: 

"  Sweet  sister  mine,  I  pray  you,  take  good  heed : 
A  passion-vine  was  fallen  on  the  path 

Last  night ;  thy  garden  has  of  pruning  need ; 
And  if  thy  maiden  strength  too  tender  be, 
Doubt  not,  the  task  shall  be  performed  for  thee." 

Few  words  there  were  beside,  but  pregnant  those : 
"  Perchance,  a  poniard  migh^  of  use  be  found. 

Meanwhile,  our  Roman  nights  breed  many  foes 
To  health  —  the  river  air  is  most  unsound. 

Thy  brother  would  not  see  the  morning  rose 
To  fail  thy  cheek.     To  guard  thee  is  he  bound  ; 

And  thereunto  is  sworn  by  such  dread  names, 

His  soul,  if  deedless,  earns  the  torment  flames." 

How,  spite  of  all  espial,  passed  the  word 

Had,  for  a  moment,  made  her  own  heart  quail  — 

That  Flavio's  presence  deadly  risk  incurred? 
A  scarf  thrown  idly  o'er  the  loggia's  rail, 

Or,  like  the  thoughtless  lyric  of  a  bird, 

Some  snatch  of  careless  song,  conveyed  the  tale. 

Else,  old  Adela  to  her  foster-child 

Brought  counsel  long  experience  had  compiled. 


But  whether  couched  in  missive,  song,  or  sign, 
One  close  of  lingering  cadence  Flavio  read, 

Nor  read  he  wrongly  —  Flavio,  I  am  thine! 
Wherefore,  his  heart  upon  sweet  symbols  fed, 

And  with  obedience,  as  to  law  divine, 

With  patience  deep  as  passion  —  passion-bred, 

He  waited,  certain  endless  nights  and  days, 

The  signal  she  was  sure,  at  last,  to  raise. 

With  love-taught  subtlety  all  circumspect 
Of  look,  of  act,  now  strove  she  to  allay 

Her  brother's  watchful  ire,  yet  little  recked 
His  greed  for  vengeance  could  a  counter  play. 

If  he  her  purpose  did  in  part  detect, 

He  deemed  it  would  itself  in  full  betray ; 

His  own,  the  while,  by  cryptic  pathways  crept: 

Each  smiled  on  each,  and  both  their  counsel  kept. 

Ay,  franker  was  his  bearing  than  of  late, 
And  tender  —  with  the  olden  tenderness 

That  from  their  earliest  childhood  had  its  date. 
And  Cassia  now  believed  the  saints  did  bless 

Her  prayers  that  they  this  feud  might  all  abate, 
And  those  who  warred,  the  mutual  hand  should 
press. 

Thus,  Fancy  planned  a  little  garden-ground 

Of  amities,  with  rose  and  myrtle  crowned. 

And,  while  she  pondered  much  what  means  were 
best 

To  bring  these  flowers  of  peace  to  air  and  light, 
One  evening,  ere  the  passion  in  the  west 

Died  down  to  ashes  on  the  plains  of  night, 
Spake  Ercole :     "  Tomorrow,  at  behest 

Of  our  most  Holy  Father,  I  forthright 
Must  to  Palermo  fare.     I  freer  go 
Since  on  thy  cheek  once  more  the  roses  glow." 


What  would  you?     Duped  by  that  which  fair  ap 
pears, 

Victors  have  vailed  to  a  retreating  host; 
The  city  of  Amyclae  shut  her  ears 

To  every  warlike  portent  —  and  was  lost ! 
Then,  can  we  wonder  if,  in  her  young  years, 

Poor  Cassia  is  on  evil  counsel  tossed? 
One  day  is  theirs,  one  day  and  blessed  eve; 
Tomorrow  may  snatch  back  their  scant  reprieve! 

So  reasoned  she,  yet  with  a  half  mistrust 
She  reasoned  ill.     But  old  Adela  showed 

'Twere  easy  every  matter  to  adjust, 
And  in  her  face  the  very  zealot  glowed : 

"Ah,  soon  enough  we  all  shall  lie  in  dust; 

But  ere  that  time  must  golden  hearts  corrode  — 

Thy  Flavio's,  even  his,  my  pretty  one, 

So  that  the  will  of  Hate,  not  Heaven,  be  done?  " 

Much  more  she  spake,  as  pertinent,  as  shrewd : 
"  Thou  would'st  not  cross  thy  father's  will,  per 
haps? 

Know  thou,  thy  brother  keeps  alive  this  feud. 
Old  age  thy  father's  dragon-hatred  saps, 

And  peace,  to  him,  is  all  beatitude. 

This  strife  must  with  this  generation  lapse. 

Mark  me,  the  Holy  Tables  nowhere  say 

Thou  must  thy  brother,  as  thy  sire,  obey." 

The  signal  passed.     And  when,  at  shut  of  day, 
Again  did  Flavio  take  in  hand  the  oar, 

It  seemed  his  boat  alone  did  know  the  way, 
Like  those  Phaeacian  barks  of  old,  that  bore 

A  voyager  where'er  his  thought  might  sway, 
Nor  needed  sail  nor  helmsman  evermore. 

Doubts  he  yon  fragrant  dark  of  leaning  boughs, 

Enshrines  the  living  goal  of  all  his  vows? 


16 


O  kindly  Night,  drop  down  a  deeper  veil, 
That  her  descending  feet  confounded  be ! 

0  Winds  arise,  and  with  such  force  assail 

His  craft  that  it  shall  have  no  choice  but  flee 
Like  Autumn  leaf  before  the  tyrannous  gale! 

But  no;  the  heavens  are  of  cloud  as  free 
As  of  a  breeze  the  waters  twilight-bland. 
Hark !  now  a  boat  grates  on  the  margin  sand. 

She  hears,  yet  not  alone  she  hears  that  sound  — 
But  never  can  she  dream  that  aught  malign 
Crosses  her  dusky  Eden's  happy  bound! 

Her  heart  beats  high ;  her  thoughts  are  transports 

fine; 

Her  words  are  —  but  in  sighs  let  them  be  drowned 
And     blest    exchanges    of,     "  my    own,"     and 
"thine."     .     .     . 

1  dream  a  fable ;  since  their  lips  met  not, 
But,  like  a  bolt,  their  fate  between  was  shot ! 

Not  in  Palermo  lies  the  hest  he  chose  ; 

To  stratagem  at  home  his  powers  are  bent. 
It  was  her  brother  Ercole.     He  rose 

Like  spirit  from  Dantean  limbo  sent, 
Whom  lust  of  vengeance  leaveth  no  repose  ; 

And    through   the   dusk   his   glance   flashed   im 
minent. 

With  one  swift  sudden  leap,  he  gains  the  boat, 
That  swerves  around,  and  driven  is  afloat. 

And  they  from  out  this  human  world  depart! 

Some  say,  was  heard  a  cry  of  woe  so  keen 
The  listening  stars  might  from  their  orbits  start. 

Save  this,  was  nothing  heard,   and  naught  was 
seen. 


Next  morning  bears  strange  news  through  court  and 

mart, 

But  none  so  strange  as  truth,  —  so  black,  I  ween. 
An  empty  boat  had  lodged  among  the  reeds,  — 
An  oarless  boat,  festooned  with  waterweeds. 

Now  down  they  go  with  grappling  iron  and  net, 
And  widely  drag  the  sullen  stream  opaque. 

The  aged  Boccanera  now  is  met 
With  aged  Corradini  in  heartache. 

Too  late  forgoten  is  the  feud  that  set 

The  sword  between  their  houses,  that  must  slake 

In  so  much  priceless  blood  its  thirsty  edge.     .     .     . 

Look,  see!  what  draw  they  up,  with  silt  and  sedge? 

As  some  old  marbles  of  untold  sad  grace, 

That  now  are  niched  in  Rome's  high  citadel, 

They  draw  them  forth  —  the  three,  in  death  em 
brace, 
As  taking  leave  of  Time  with  one  farewell. 

As  though  they  spake  in  whisper,  face  to  face. 
Those  mortal  foemen  now  seemed  fit  to  dwell 

Immortal,  since  had  vanished  ea/thly  feud, 

That  seeks  to  be  in  mutual  blood  imbrued. 

But  ah,  ye  fathers,  of  such  sons  bereft, 
There  yet  remains  a  grief  ye  cannot  flee. 

What  is  this  dagger  buried  to  the  heft? 

What  are  these  crimson  stains  ye  needs  must  see? 

That  dagger  hath  the  heart  of  Flavio  cleft, 
That  dagger  knew  the  hand  of  Ercole! 

An  ancient  blade  it  is,  with  rubied  hilt ; 

God  wot,  ere  now,  it  hath  been  red  with  guilt ! 


Those  fathers  saw,  with  eyeballs  dry  and  old, 
A  deeper  horror.     For,  when  Love  took  flight, 

Vengeance,  for  Love,  poor  Cassia  did  enfold! 

Just  then,  with  arms  so  firm,  so  round,  so  white, 

On  slayer  and  on  slain  she  so  laid  hold 

That   face   to   face   their  hates   they  seemed   to 
plight. 

Then,  with  mad  force,  the  boat  she  overturned, 

And    quenched    life's    fire   when    it    most    fiercely 
burned. 


A  PORTRAIT  BEFORE  DEATH 

(From  Whitesides  Translation,  Beatrice  Cenci, 
Storia  del  Secolo  XVI.) 

SCENE. —  a  prison. 

r  BEATRICE, 

Persons:  )  FARINACCI,  her  advocate, 
(  Gumo  RENI. 

Enter  Farinacci  with  Guido  Reni  dressed  as  a 
writer  in  the  courts  of  justice. 

BEATRICE. 

Thou  dost  not  need  to  say:    "  I  bring  no  hope," 
Nor  canst  thou  bring  despair  I  have  not  known. 

FARINACCI. 

Lady,  all  intercession  hath  been  vain: 
The  Pope  is  firm  for  death. 

BEATRICE. 
Do  we  all  die  ? 

FARINACCI. 
Thy  brother  is  absolved  death-penalty. 

BEATRICE. 

Absolved  from  memory  —  woulp1  it  might  be ! 
He  will  be  old  in  youth,  with  the  sore  load 
Of  all  that  he  must  bear,  when  these  black  days 
Become  his  past  —  my  dear  —  my  little  —  brother! 
Would  Heav'n  that  he  might  all  forget  —  ev'n  me, 
Though  thus  forgotten,  I  should  go  away, 
Unloved,  into  the  loveless  Night  of  Time ! 

(Suddenly  observes  Guido,  who,  seated  at  a  little 
distance,  is  sketching  rapidly.) 
But  who  is  he  that  entered  with  thee,  say! 
Who  is  yon  stranger?     Wherefore  does  he  watch 
With  looks  that  penetrate,  that  nothing  miss? 
There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  be  watched. 
Surely,  the  doomed  are  from  espial  free! 
He  writes? 


20 


FARINACCI. 

Nay,  'tis  the  Signer  Guido  Reni  — 

One  midst  the  host  of  thy  so  helpless  friends! 

'Tis  true,  he  watches  thee  with  gaze  intent, 

For  he  would  fix  the  image  ere  it  fleets. 

He  begs  to  paint  thy  portrait.     I  to  his 

Add  mine  entreaty:     Give  to  after-days 

The  sorrowful  kind  pleasure  of  quick  tears, 

In  fancy  fain  to  heap  world-treasure  up 

For  ransom  of  that  most  sweet  face,  those  eyes, 

We  of  thy  time  were  impotent  to  save ! 

The  art  of  Guido  be  thine  advocate, 

To  win,  hereafter,  fairest  thought  of  thee. 

BEATRICE. 

O,  Signor  Farinacci,  be  it  done 
According  to  thy  wish.     But  Guido  paints 
No  faces  and  no  eyes  like  these,  grief-drench'd  ; 
The  chrism  of  the  Morning  hath  bedewed 
His  spirit,  and  the  torch  of  Dawn  is  lent 
Unto  his  hand.     No  subject  I,  for  him,  — 
Already  shadow-crossed  and  sealed  to  Night; 
While  darkness  of  deep  infamy  draws  on.     .     . 

(Guido  approaches.) 
For  how  can  after-days,  with  fable  fed, 
Instead  of  truth,  know  aught  of  Beatrice? 
Yet  if  it  be  desired,  then  I  will  sit.     .     .     . 
And,  if  he  pity  me,  as  it  may  chance, 
A  great  thing  will  I  ask  of  him  —  (aside)  ah,  yes 

GUIDO. 

If  any,  greatest  of  my  craft,  could  paint 
Thee  as  thou  art,  then  should  the  gazer  sigh : 
"  Would  I  had  lived  in  those  old  cruel  days; 
My  life  to  ransom  hers  I  would  have  paid. 
Ay,  more,  my  soul  immortal  I  had  pledged 
To  sink  where  no  light  is,  had  hers  been  found 
Allied  to  things  of  darkness!  " 


21 


BEATRICE. 

Yet,  I  die! 

But  if  thine  art  Elysian  thou  wouldst  lend 
To  such  an  one,  from  morn-light  parted  aye, 
Haste  thou  thy  gentle  work.     Few  hours  remain. 

(She  sits,  and  Guido  sketches.) 

0  Guido  Reni,  must  I  seem  to  smile 
As  do  the  gracious  faces,  in  old  halls, 

Of  those  who  lived  their  full  lives  out,  and  died 
In  quietness,  rounding  a  quiet  life? 

GUIDO. 

(O,  morn-light,  undeserved  of  a  base  world, 
Scarce  granted,  thou  art  bidden  back  to  God!) 

BEATRICE. 

1  know  thou  canst  not  paint  me  as  I  would, 
To  win  me  Pity's  boon  from  after-days. 

GUIDO. 
Dear  lady,  how  is  that? 

BEATRICE. 

Didst  thou  not  say 

To  things  of  darkness  I  was  not  allied  ? 
Oh,  they  have  crowded  on  me  till  I  am, 
Where'er  I  search,  deep-grained  Vith  their  hue! 
Abhorent  knowledge  sinks  its  shade  in  me. 
So,  dread  Petrella's  dismal  hanging  rocks 
Lend  to  lost  little  streams,  that  wind  beneath, 
The  depth  and  darkness  of  an  Acheron : 
Omniscience  of  things  evil,  evil  brings! 
Canst  thou  paint  mine  and  not  their  image,  too  ? 

(Covers  her  face  with  her  hands.) 

GUIDO  (to  Farinacci.) 

Speak  to  her,  thou  her  old,  dear,  trusted  friend, 
And  tell  her  I  but  paint  what  I  do  see  — 
An  angel  —  one  that  hath  in  Heaven  her  peer,  — 
That  other  Beatrice  Dante  saw 
Midmost  the  Rose  divine  of  paradise! 


22 


FARINACCI. 

Oh,  gentilezza,  hearken  now  to  me: 
Remember  thou  the  spirit-searching  face 
Which  is  our  Dante's,  —  how,  to  some,  it  seemed 
(While  yet  he  lived)  averted  from  all  joy, 
As  though  the  torture  of  the  Underworld, 
And  infamies  of  lost  ones  there  confined, 
Had  been,  by  seeing,  branded  on  his  brow ! 
But  we,  who  on  the  cunning  portrait  gaze, 
Have  clearer  sight  of  bard  and  man  than  they 
Who  saw  the  living  Dante.     We  behold 
Compassion  that  no  knowledge  can  bestow 
Except  it  fathom  depth  as  well  as  height. 
That  inwrought  sense  of  evil  and  of  base 
Mars  not  the  soul  of  Dante,  looking  forth 
From  those  deep  eyes,  nor  shall  it  mar  thy  soul, 
When  Guido's  work  shall  be  thine  advocate 
In  potent  silence  —  when  we  all  are  dust. 

BEATRICE  (looking  from  one  to  the  other). 
Shall  I  thus  live,  when  I  no  longer  live ! 
Thou  strengthenest  resolve  in  my  sad  heart. 
Ye  both  will  pardon  my  ungrateful  weakness, 
Delaying  that  which  I  so  much  desire. 
Now,  Signer  Guido,  turn  I  thus,  —  or  thus? 
I  draw  this  mantle  closer  round  my  head. 
Its  folds,  all  white,  perchance,  shall  be  my  shroud ; 
Or  say  that  I,  thus  habited  severe, 
Do  take  on  me  strange  vows  no  rubric  knows,  — 
Of  ghostly  sisterhood  no  cloister  knows. 

FARINACCI. 
(The  childish  heart-break  veiled  behind  that  look!) 

GUIDO. 

Sweet  Patience,  if,  indeed,  thou  dost  permit 
The  work  of  this,  my  unfit,  willing  hand, 
Let  not  austerity  thy  features  rule. 


23 


FARINACCI. 

Nay,  nay,  for  thus  alone  wert  thou  belied; 
Think  how  would  not  be  wanting  ready  lips 
To  say:    "  So  all  untouched  by  human  ruth, 
Thus  Clytemnestra  did  the  sleeper  strike,  — 
Thus,  Jael,  —  Judith  —  born  avengers  all!  " 
Lady,  in  nought  art  thou  to  these  akin: 
Soft  is  thy  heart,  that  Fate  did  set  her  hand 
To  indurate;  yet,  long  as  it  shall  beat, 
Its  nature  cannot  change.     Let,  then,  thy  heart 
Transfuse  thy  pictured  face  —  to  reach  all  hearts, 
When  Guide's  work  shall  be  thine  advocate 
In  potent  silence  —  when  we  all  are  dust ! 

GUIDO. 

That  tress  —  upon  thy  shoulder  let  it  fall, 
To  say  what  wealth  of  loveliness  in  Youth 
Was  reckless  shorn  away  in  old-time;  and, 
If  thou  a  little  wouldst  thine  eyelids  raise  — 

FARINACCI. 
The  tears  forbid  her!     Freely  let  them  come! 

BEATRICE   (recovering  herself.) 
I  did  not  think  the  tears  would  come  again, 
But  I,  when  Signer  Guido  spoke  —  how  strange !  — 
Remembered  something  —  something  far  and  sweet 
In  childhood,  —  that  my  mother,  chiding,  spake,  — 
So  lightly  chiding  me  for  downcast  looks. 
The  tears  were  childhood's  tears.     I  promise  now, 
That,  like  a  quiet  child,  I  will  obey 
Direction ;  so  the  portrait  shall  be  sped. 
So  almost  parted  am  I  from  this  life, 
And  all  its  issues,  that  thy  task  would  seem 
The  portrait  of  a  portrait  —  and  no  more ! 

Guroo. 

To  any  that  have  known  thee,  never  —  never 
Shalt  thou  from  life  and  memory  be  withdrawn ! 


Be  as  thou  now  art,  and  forever  so, 

Till  tint  and  fibre  of  this  canvas  yield 

To  the  unseen  consuming  fire  of  Time! 

Think  of  the  eyes  that  shall  encounter  thine  — 

Oh,  think  a  little  of  the  tenderness 

That  would  beseech  thee  (out  of  future  days) 

To  heed  their  crystal  tribute  dropped  for  thee. 

There !  hold  thy  posture,  —  hold  the  thought  thou 

hast, 

(Whate'er  it  be)  for  now  Heav'n  lends  a  power 
This  brush  hath  rarely  known.     The  work  must 
live. 

(Guido  paints;  all  three  continuing  some  time 
silent.  At  length,  Guido  pausing,  a  look  of  great 
earnestness  passes  over  the  features  of  Beatrice.) 

FARINACCI. 
Lady,  there  is  a  question  thou  would'st  ask? 

BEATRICE. 

There  is  a  question  I  would  ask,  ah,  yes! 
A  favor  I  would  crave.     'Tis  a  great  thing. 
Nor  would  I  ask  it,  but  that  I  believe, 
O  Signer  Guido  Reni,  from  thy  words 
Thou  wilt  not  cease  to  pity  me  when  gone,  — 
With  those  recorded,  whom  our  country's  law 
Hastens  to  hide  beneath  the  shuddering  earth. 

FARINACCI. 

Ask,  lady,  whatsoe'er  thou  would'st,  of  him  ; 
The  artist  is  not  greater  than  the  man. 

GUIDO. 
Wilt  thou  but  speak  whate'er  is  in  thy  heart  ? 


BEATRICE  (rises  and  slowly  advances  towards  the 
canvas. ) 
Then,  would  I  this,  but  should  it  be  too  much  — 

(Sees  the  portrait.) 

Ay,  Guide's  work  shall  be  my  advocate 
In  potent  silence,  when  we  all  are  dust! 
Yet  ere  the  portrait  leave  thy  cunning  hand, 
To  plead  for  me  through  all  the  days  to  come,  — 
(This  is  my  question),  when  thou  sign  thy  work 
Then,  as  it  were  to  countersign  the  work, 
And  that  compassion  lack  no  point  of  faith, 
A  something  thou  couldst  add  (and,  pardon  me,) 
'Tis  this  —  to  write  upon  one  angle,  here, 

(Indicates  with  her  finger.) 
Or  here,  perchance,  one  single  word,  —  no  more, 

(Writes  with  her  finger.) 
Thus,  —  Innocente.     .     .     Guido,  wilt  thou  write? 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  FORGOTTEN 
THINGS 

There  is  a  pity  in  forgotten  things, 

Banished  the  heart  they  can  no  longer  fill, 
Since  restless  Fancy,  spreading  swallow  wings, 
Must  seek  new  pleasure  still ! 

There  is  a  patience,  too,  in  things  forgot  ; 

They  wait,  —  they  find  the  portal  long  unused ; 
And  knocking  there,  it  shall  refuse  them  not,  — 
Nor  aught  shall  be  refused! 

Ah,  yes !  though  we,  unheeding  years  on  years, 

In  alien  pledges  spend  the  heart's  estate, 
They  bide  some  blessed  moment  of  quick  tears  — 
Some  moment  without  date  — 

Some  gleam  on  flower,  or  leaf,  or  beaded  dew, 
Some  tremble  at  the  ear  of  memoried  sound 
Of  mother-song,  —  they  seize  the  slender  clew,  — 
The  old  loves  gather  round! 

When  that  which  lured  us  once  now  lureth  not, 

But  the  tired  hands  their  gathered  dross  let  fall, 
This  is  the  triumph  of  the  things  forgot  — 
To  hear  the  tired  heart  call! 

And  they  are  with  us  at  Life's  farthest  reach, 

A  light  when  into  shadow  all  else  dips, 
As,  in  the  stranger's  land,  their  native  speech 
Returns  to  dying  lips! 


27 


MOBILITE. 

Oh,  ask  me  not  wherefore  I  change,  but  see ! 
Change  visits  all  thou  lovest  next  to  me; 
From  Nature's  self  I  drew  mine  errant  ways, 
Her  tides,  her  flowers,  her  veering  lights  and  days! 

Yet  grieve  not  that  I  change ;  for  change  on  change 
Shall  bring  me  back  —  'tis  but  a  circle's  range ! 
Then  wait  me,  for  thou  canst,  so  firm  of  soul ; 
Thou  art  my  starting  and  my  final  goal. 

THE  CHILD  HEART. 

The  summer  sun  may  shrink  the  rill 
Till  all  its  course  is  crannied  clay, 
Yet  in  some  green  ridge  far  away 
The  fountain-head  is  welling  still. 

Such  is  his  lot,  whose  youth  is  past  — 
Whose  noon  of  life  straightway  departs, 
If  in  his  bribeless  heart  of  hearts 
His  childhood  dwells  serene  and  fast. 

The  winds  heroic  news  still  bruit, 
The  woods  enchanted  murmur  make, 
And  all  the  word  that  Nature  spake 
In  his  young  ear  grows  never  mute. 

His  childhood's  God  lives  in  the  sky, 
And  breaks  the  seasons  to  the  earth; 
Day's  new-blown  fire,  red  evening's  hearth 
Wave  wonder-scrolls  before  his  eye. 

Of  all  the  flowers  the  round  year  brings 
He  loves  the  faint  pearl-colored  blooms, 
That  wear,  through  April's  smiles  and  glooms, 
Memorial  looks  of  youngest  springs. 


28 


He  yet  can  find  a  relish  keen 
In  foods  and  drinks  his  childhood  sought, 
In  cups  of  milk,  and  honey  brought 
From  hives  within  the  forest  green  ; 

In  berries  speared  on  grassy  bent, 
Dusk  berries  from  the  bramble  wastes : 
In  each  and  all  of  these  he  tastes 
I  know  not  what  of  deep  content! 

And  never  falls  upon  his  ear 
Such  benison  from  Music's  tongue 
As  in  those  hymns  his  mother  sung 
In  summer  twilights  dim  and  dear! 

The  years  no  tenderness  can  steal; 
Him  as  a  child  the  shaft  can  wound ; 
But  since  his  heart  is  true  and  sound, 
Him  as  a  child  the  balm  can  heal. 

His  joys  and  griefs,  as  they  were  wont, 
Travel  the  same  heart-avenues; 
A  vernal  hope  his  step  pursues  — 
The  snowflakes  gather  on  his  front! 

Old  Time  despairs  to  make  him  old, 
And  when  from  out  the  veiled  deep 
The  still  Voice  calleth  him  to  sleep, 
He  as  a  child  his  eyes  shall  fold. 

"A  SNOW  YEAR  " 

"  What  seest  thou  writ  on  winter's  vasty  scroll  ?  " 
"As  white  yon  plain  —  so  green  spring  tides  shall 

roll! 

As  miserly  the  winter's  clenched  hand  — 
So  free  the  summer's  largess  to  the  land !  " 


THE  SEA  AND  THE  STAR 

The  voice  of  the  Sea  on  every  shore 

And  the  gaze  of  the  Star  on  every  land  — 
They  are  one  and  the  same  forevermore  — 

And  this  will  the  lover  understand. 
The  voice  of  the  Sea  is  the  cry  unstilled 

Till  the  craving  heart  shall  find  its  rest; 
And  the  gaze  of  the  Star  is  love  fulfilled 

And  the  peace  that  reigns  in  the  constant  breast. 

THE  DARK  BEFORE  DAWN 

Oh,  mystery  of  the  morning  gloam, 

Of  haunted  air,  of  windless  hush! 
Oh,  wonder  of  the  deepening  dome  — 

Afar,  still  far,  the  morning's  flush ! 
My  spirit  hears,  among  the  spheres, 

The  round  earth's  ever-quickening  rush ! 

A  single  leaf,  on  yonder  tree, 

The  planet's  rush  hath  felt,  hath  heard, 
And  soon  all  branches  whispering  be; 

That  whisper  wakes  the  nested  bird  — 
The  song  of  thrush,  before  the  blush 

Of  Dawn,  the  dreaming  world  hath  stirred ! 

The  old  moon  withers  in  the  East  — 
The  winds  of  space  may  drive  her  far! 

In  heaven's  chancel  waits  the  priest  — 
Dawn's  pontiff-priest,  the  morning  star! 

And  yonder,  lo !  a  shafted  glow  — 
The  gates  of  Day-spring  fall  ajar! 


3° 


THE  DRYAD  OF  THE  ORCHARD 

Vainly,  vainly  have  I  sought  her, 

Watching  all  the  long  bright  daytime,  — 

She,  the  mossy  Orchard's  daughter, 
Waking  only  in  the  May-time!   x 

Sleeps  she  null  to  winter's  rigor, 

Null  to  frost  or  sleet-wind's  scourges  ; 

Draws  with  buds  a  hidden  vigor, 
And  with  opening  buds  emerges. 

When  the  blossoms  crowd  in  wonder, 

On  the  branches  gnarled  and  hoary, 
And  the  grass  grows  long  thereunder, 

Then  she  comes  in  baffling  glory! 

There  be  those  that  do  attend  her, 

And  they  list  to  do  her  pleasure; 
She  hath  touched  them  with  her  splendor, 

And  hath  given  joy  past  measure: 

One  —  the  oriole,  darting  quickly, 

(Voice  of  rapture  clear  Elysian!) 
Glimpsed  through  flower  glooms  crowding  thickly, 

Flame  bright,  winged,  fleeting  vision ! 

Elfland  minstrels,  too,  are  bidden, 

And  they  share  her  nectared  chalice,  — 

Forest  swarm  or  hive  bees,  hidden 
In  her  flower-wove  hanging  palace. 

These  attend  and  serve  her  ever,  — 

Vainly,  vainly  I  have  sought  her; 
Though  I  watch,  I  see  her  never,  — 

She,  the  mossy  Orchard's  daughter! 


A  PEU  PRES 

Thy  palace  walls  were  founded  well, 
And  well  its  courses  thou  didst  lay  ; 

One  tower  defied  the  genie's  spell, 
And  stands  a  ruin  to  this  day. 

The  Land  of  Flowers  thou  didst  attain, 
And  see  the  spring's  immortal  jet; 

Thy  staff-worn  hand  was  reached  in  vain  — • 
Thy  lips  that  crystal  never  wet ! 

With  pains  the  altar  thou  didst  dress, 
And  the  burnt  sacrifice  prepare, 

And  call  upon  the  God  to  bless  — 

All  but  the  Fire  from  Heaven  was  there! 

Thou  shak'st  thy  lance  on  hard-fought  field, 
Thou  sleep'st,  the  tingling  stars  above ;  — 

Pity  and  praise  sweet  eyes  can  yield, 
But  ne'er  vouchsafe  the  Light  of  Love ! 

What  does  thou  lack?     'Tis*almost  naught 
That  parts  thee  from  thy  Heart's  Desire,  - 

A  step  —  a  span  —  an  airy  thought: 
A  pulse-beat  more,  thou  didst  require ! 


"  CLEAVE  TO  THINE  ACRE  " 

My  neighbor  was  a  forester 

And  ranged  with  bow  and  spear; 

I  was  a  simple  gardener, 

And  delved  the  whole  round  year. 

Time  came  when  both  a-weary  were, 

And  both  resolved  on  change; 
So  he  became  a  gardener, 

And  I  the  woods  did  range. 

The  seed  springs  never  to  the  light,  — 

He  chides  the  soil,  the  air! 
The  forest  genii,  in  despite, 

Adrift  mine  arrows  bear! 

Folk  say  the  woods  be  full  of  deer, 
The  wild-flowers  praise  the  soil: 

But  flower  nor  game,  the  whole  round  year, 
Rewards  our  alien  toil. 


33 


THE  UNLEAFED  BEECH 

If  any  say  that  Beauty  parts  from  thee 

When  frost  and  wind  thy  summer  honors  steal, 

Stand  forth,  O  Beech,  that  such  an  one  may  see 
Beauty  as  great  thy  leafage  did  conceal! 

Lo,  thou,  the  West  Wind's  lithe  antagonist, 
Art  quick  to  strife,  but  when  his  force  is  spent, 

As  in  a  garment  meshed  of  autumn  mist 
Thy  branches  sleep  in  silver-gray  content. 

By  all  the  crowning  summers  thou  hast  shed, 
By  all  thy  well-fought  winters,  dauntless  Tree, 

Drop  benisons  upon  thy  lover's  head, 

And  share  thy  strength,  thy  grace,  thy  hope,  with 
me! 


34 


THE  SPRINGS  OF  LONG  AGO 

Come  near,  O  Sun,  O  South  wind,  blow ! 
And  be  the  Winter's  captives  freed. 
Where  are  the  Springs  of  long  ago? 

Drive  underground  the  lingering  snow, 
And  forth  the  green  sward  legions  lead ; 
Come  near,  O  Sun,  O  South  wind,  blow! 

Are  these  the  skies  we  used  to  know, 

The  budding  wood,  the  fresh  blown  mead  ? 

Where  are  the  Springs  of  long  ago? 

The  breathing  furrow  now  we  sow, 
And  patient  wait  the  patient  seed  ; 
Come  near,  O  Sun,  O  South  wind,  blow ! 

The  grain  of  vanished  years  will  grow, 
But  not  thy  vanished  years,  indeed ! 
Where  are  the  Springs  of  long  ago? 

With  sodden  leafage  lying  low, 
They  for  remembrance  faintly  plead. 
Come  near,  O  Sun,  O  South  wind,  blow ! 
Where  are  the  Springs  of  long  ago? 


35 


AN  EASTER  FANTASY 

I 

In  England,  on  an  Easter-tide, 
Beneath  a  budding  forest-side, 
And  in  a  grassy  meadow  wide, 

To  me  a  vision  came. 

The  quick-grown  blades  like  velvet  showed, 
And  at  their  airy  summits  glowed 

The  primrose'  yellow  flame, 

II 

The  hills  stood  back  in  tender  mist; 
The  pleasure-laden  wind  said,  "  List!  " 
I  could  have  bent  me  down  and  kissed 

Those  flower-lips  dashed  with  dew: 
But  as  I  stooped,  a  sigh  began  — 
The  green  and  gold  together  ran, 

And  dim  the  meadow  grew. 

Ill 

And  of  the  dimness  and  the  sigh 
A  voice  arose  that  was  a  cry; 
A  radiant  shadow  trembled  by, 

With  wide  and  sunny  hair. 
"  Who  art  thou  then,  whom  leaf  and  flower 
Salute,  and  with  their  beauty  dower  ?  — 

Thy  name  and  race  declare !  " 


IV 

"  I  am  that  Eostre  whom  of  eld 

The  Light  of  all  the  World  dispelled: 

'Twas  here  my  festival  was  held 

With  heart-abounding  mirth. 
Of  me,  there  lingers  but  the  name, 
And,  of  my  smile,  this  primrose  flame 

Low  down  along  the  earth!  " 

A  COCOON 

Willow  buds  in  burnished  sheath, 
And  the  fruit  tree's  snowy  wreath  • 
All  are  safely  shut  away, 
Waiting  till  the  touch  of  May. 

Other  life  as  fair  as  theirs 
In  the  long,  long  waiting  shares, 
Shut  in  cell  of  hodden  gray, 
Waiting  till  the  touch  of  May. 

While  the  blasts  of  winter  sweep, 
Here  strange  beauty  lies  asleep  ; 
Closed  alike  to  frost  and  sun  — 
House  and  bed  and  garment  one. 

But  when  prisoned  leaf-buds  fling 
Their  light  banners  to  the  spring, 
In  the  selfsame  joyous  hour 
Shall  go  forth  a  winged  flower. 


37 


THE  BURDEN  OF  AGE 

"Ah,  how  the  years  exile  us  into  dreams !  " 

—  Walter  Carey. 

There  is  a  dancing  in  the  morning  beams, 

There  is  a  rainbow  sown  amid  the  dew, 

There  is  a  glint  of  gold  shot  through  the  sands, 

A  molten  sapphire  in  the  mountains'  hue, 

And  Hope  down  comes  with  all  her  singing  bands. 

Nay,  nay,  it  is  not  so;  'twas  long  ago! 

There  was  a  dancing  in  the  morning  beams : 

Ah,  how  the  years  exile  us  into  dreams! 

There  is  a  glamour  in  the  moon's  white  gleams, 
There  is  the  touch  that  charmed  Endymion's  eyes, 
A  spirit  mounting  from  the  clod  and  stone, 
A  spirit  bending  from  the  bending  skies  — 
And  Love  in  midst  of  all  sets  up  his  throne ! 
Nay,  nay,  it  is  not  so ;  'twas  long  ago ! 
There  was  a  glamour  in  the  moon's  white  gleams : 
Ah,  how  the  years  exile  us  into  dreams! 

There  is  a  wonder-light  on  woodland  streams, 

A  murmur  in  the  green  o'erhanging  boughs, 

A  rustle  in  the  f ronded  ranks  of  fern  — 

And,  lo!  the  Muse  with  rapt  enwreathed  brows, 

And  eyes  that  seen  and  unseen  things  discern ! 

Nay,  nay,  it  is  not  so ;  'twas  long  ago ! 

There  was  a  wonder-light  on  woodland  streams: 

Ah,  how  the  years  exile  us  into  dreams! 

Some  other  world,  perchance,  our  loss  redeems,  — 
Light  to  dead  eyes  and  speech  to  lips  all  dumb 
Brings  back,  —  brings  us  and  ours  from  banishment ! 
So  may  our  dreams  a  living  joy  become; 
But  here  all  things  that  are,  with  doubt  are  blent, 
Within  the  mists  that  blow  from  long  ago ! 
Some  other  world,  not  this,  our  loss  redeems: 
Ah,  how  the  years  exile  us  into  dreams! 

38 


IN  PENUMBRA 

Now  have  I  reached  the  day's  extremest  bound, 
Now  into  shadow  all  the  shadows  creep; 
And,  while  the  night's  full  cup  o'erflows  around, 
I  die  the  death  of  Sleep. 

A  little  more  —  to  Life's  extremest  bound ; 
A  deeper  shade  the  shadows  gathereth ; 
And,  while  the  night,  exhaustless,  flows  around, 
I  sleep  the  sleep  of  Death. 

ART  IN  A  SORDID  AGE 

As  one  who  strives  a  pittance  to  amass, 

Vending  some  trifle  that  none  keeps  nor  seeks, 

So  in  a  sordid  age  is  Art,  alas ! 

And  all  she  wins,  of  veiled  pity  speaks. 

TO  A  FLORENTINE  DIAL 

Perchance,  oft  did  San  Marco's  monk  austere, 
Or  Donatello,  watch  thy  style's  advance: 
Now,  from  what  star,  their  day  our  circling  year, 
Our  earth  their  dial,  darts  their  sphery  glance  ? 


39 


THE  MEDITATION  OF  AN  EARLY 
CHRISTIAN 

To  that  great  Light  that  shone  from  Nazareth, 
Who  best  discerned  the  things  of  Life,  of  Death, 
Who  taught  us,  first  and  last,  that  love  for  man 
Avails  where  naught  else  can, 

Who  gave  the  Law,  To  others  do  as  ye 
Yourselves  would  be  done  by  —  I  make  my  plea, 
(And  pardon  grant,  that  oft  I  strove,  and  failed, 
To  show  how  Love  availed ! ) 

For  this  I  found  —  full  often  found,  in  sooth  — 
The  precious  things  of  justice  and  of  truth 
And  faith  fraternal  which,  past  all,  I  sought, 
By  men  were  deemed  as  naught; 

Since  better  did  they  love  to  be  beguiled 
With  glozing  words  and  flatteries  smoothly  filed, 
And  little  did  they  crave  that  I  should  do 
The  deed  I  deemed  most  true. 

I  gave  them  what  I  daily  prayed  might  be 
In  human  love  apportioned  unto  me  — 
What  had  been  meat,  to  fill  my  hungering  lot  ; 
In  vain!  it  fed  them  not. 

And  now,  I  see  it  is  not  counted  good 

To  do  to  others  save  as  others  would. 

Lord,  in  what  manner  should  one  hold 

Thy  Law  surnamed  of  Gold? 


40 


THE  SOUL  UNWEARIED 

Weary  were  feet  with  the  race  of  the  day, 
Weary  were  eyes  from  their  watch  on  the  way, 
Weary  the  breast,  with  the  heart  knocking  fast, 

And  I  groped  for  the  door  of  Dark  Peace, 

That  waiteth  all  pilgrims  at  last. 

To  my  Soul  all  alone  in  the  waste  I  then  spake: 
"  I  am  tired,  and  my  farewell  of  Time  I  would  take : 
Flee  with  me  hence  from  this  scene  undesired, 

Flee  with  me  hence,  O  my  Soul, 

For,  even  as  I,  thou  art  tired !  " 

Then  the  voice  of  my  Soul  all  alone  filled  the  waste: 
"  Flee  hence,   or  abide  —  as   thou   wilt  —  as   thou 

mayst  ; 

But  I  —  lo,  I  tire  not,  and  never  shall  tire, 
If  within  or  without  thee  I  dwell  — 
Thou  bondslave  to  Time  and  Desire !  " 

Back  from  the  door  of  Dark  Peace  I  recoiled, 
Crying:     "If   Time   hath   not   marred    thee,    nor 

foiled  — 
If  thou  tire  not,  I  tire  not,  thou,  O  my  Soul!  " 

Then  on,  from  that  moment,  I  pressed, 

And  ever  press  on,  to  the  goal. 


THE  LITTLE  SISTER 


The  sighing  trees  —  they  all  stood  round,  - 

Their  friendly  arms  around  me  cast; 
The  brook  with  mingled  shadow-sound 

Of  laughter  and  of  sobbing  passed  ; 
The  bank  whereon  I  lay  was  spread 

With  small  soft  mosses,  thick  and  deep ; 
The  faint  breeze  stooped  above  my  bed  , 
These  spake  with  one  accord,  and  said : 

"  Our  Little  Sister,  —  let  her  weep,  — 
Hush,  let  her  weep!" 

II 

Their  voices  all  afar  withdrew 

What  time  the  tears  ran  free  and  fain  . 
Those  tears  the  mosses  drank  as  dew, 

Those  tears  the  brook  received  as  rain ; 
For  tears  the  trees  their  balsam  shed, 

Then  took  my  heart,  my  grief,*to  keep, 
And  gave  their  griefless  calm  instead. 
And  once  again  all  spake,  and  said: 

"  Our  Little  Sister  —  let  her  sleep,  — 
Hush,  let  her  sleep!" 


42 


WHITE  CLOVER 

"  What,  here,  thou  tender  thing,  on  fire's  black  path, 
'Mid  desolation  which  thy  comrades  shun?  " 
"  For  this  I  came  —  to  hide  the  signs  of  scath, 
And  shield  the  sad,  bare  soil  from  summer's  sun." 

"  Then  will  I  give  thee  to  that  human  flower 
Who,  when  all  others  flee  the  gathering  gloom, 

Runs  thither  in  misfortune's  darkest  hour, 

And   fills   the   world   with   sweetness   and   with 
bloom." 

AT  THE  CATAMOUNT  TAVERN 

Gone  is  the  couchant  stealth  of  the  mountain, 
And  the  burning  eye  from  dell  and  cavern ; 

Their  effigy  gone  from  the  tavern  doorway  — 
And  gone  the  Catamount  Tavern. 

But  in  the  days  that  are  long  since  numbered, 
In  the  days  that  were  bold,  and  brave,  and  hardy, 

Fierce  was  the  wild,  and  fearless  the  hunter, 
And  his  rifle  aim  not  tardy. 

Then  was  there  roof  for  steed  and  rider; 

Then  was  there  zest  for  the  tale  of  the  ranger, 
And  the  table  was  spread,  and  the  fire  was  stirred, 

For  the  cheer  of  friend  or  stranger. 

Those  were  the  days  of  a  land  divided  — 
Cry  of  "  Rebel!  "  and  shout  of  "  Tory!  "  — 

Those  were  the  days  of  a  wild-fire  spreading  — 
Days  of  the  making  of  story! 

Then,  'neath  the  bristling  sign  of  the  portal 
The  landlord  welcomed  the  steaming  rider, 

With  cheeks  as  red  as  the  apple  distilled 
In  his  brimming  flagons  of  cider. 


43 


Now  at  the  taunt  of  the  British  Major 

A  redder  hue  on  his  cheek  was  burning:  — 

"  Landlord,  see  that  our  dinner  is  ready, 
For  soon  shall  we  be  returning!  " 

Wroth  was  old  Stephen  Fay  at  this  gibing,  — 
Too  angry  to  answer  the  taunt,  was  old  Stephen : 

"  Oh,  if,  as  once,  I  could  handle  yon  musket, 
We,  before  night,  should  be  even!  " 

For  this  was  Bennington's  red-letter  morning 
(This  in  the  days  of  the  making  of  story)  ; 

And  the  heights  around  did  for  hours  resound 
With  the  firing  of  rebel  and  tory. 

Down    Bennington    Hill,    when    long    were    the 
shadows, 

With  a  sorry  remnant  returned  the  Major,  — 
Major  and  men  with  pinioned  arms, 

All  silent,  sadder,  and  sager. 

And  Stephen  Fay  of  the  Catamount  Tavern, 

With  a  voice  that  was  clear,  and  a  gaze  that  was 
steady, 

Stood  at  his  doorway  with  smiling  welcome, 
"  Your  dinner,  sirs,  is  ready!  " 


44 


THE  BANNERED  STREET 

I  have  beheld  between  dark  woods,  each  way, 
The  crimson  strata  of  the  eastern  sky, 

While,  gazing  on  the  earth  with  keen  survey, 
The  candid  stars  still  kept  their  watch  on  high. 

Borne  swift  along  the  roadways  of  the  town 

I  have  beheld  a  pageant  all  as  fair: 
Each  side  the  walls  of  granite  seemed  to  frown, 

While  sunrise  colors  took  the  buoyant  air. 

The  gleaming  vista  of  the  bannered  street! 

What  pride,  what  joy  of  hope,  it  stirs  in  me, 
Kindles  the  eye,  quickens  the  pulse's  beat  — 

My  Country,  it  is  morning-time  with  thee! 

Who  deems  that  thou  hast  reached  thy  full  estate? 

Great  as  thou  art,  thou  must  yet  greater  be ; 
Thy  banner's  daybreak-colors  point  thy  fate  — 

My  Country,  'tis  but  morning-time  with  thee ! 


45 


ON  THE  EVE  OF  WAR 

"Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war." 

THE   MAN   SPEAKS 

When  torpid  stands  the  blood  of  civic  life, 
What  shall  revivify  but  armed  strife  ? 

THE  WOMAN 

The  call  to  arms  but  calls  your  bravest  brave  — 
Ye  lose  but  that  which  it  were  Life  to  save ! 

THE  MAN 

When  outland  insults  press  the  Sovereign  State, 
What  shall  avenge  but  War,  —  what  vindicate? 

THE  WOMAN 

Who  shall  avenge  the  dead  that  War  hath  slain, 
The  mingled  valor  of  the  bloo^-drench'd  plain? 

THE  MAN 

The  cry  of  Mars  upon  the  citadel !  — 

I  would  be  hence,  the  mustering  throng  to  swell ! 

THE  WOMAN 

I,  with  Saturnia,  breathing  mist,  would  go,  — 
To  blind  and  stay  the  feet  of  friend  and  foe ! 


46 


THE  SEA-FIGHT 

"  Hush,  sprinkle  the  decks  with  sand ;   for  blood  will 
soon  be  shed!  —S.  R.  Elliott. 

I 

Nearer  the  dark  ships  draw  together,  like  birds  of 
prey, 

Nearer  and  nearer  we  circle  and  wheel,  ere  we 
close  for  the  fray! 

They  should  be  friends,  who  shall  meet  on  the  deso 
late  waste  of  the  deep  — 

Friends!  from  the  throats  of  our  giant  guns  our 
welcome  shall  leap, 

Yours  be  not  slow  to  reply ;  and,  at  length,  we  shall 
understand ! 

(Hush,  sprinkle  the  deck  with  sand!) 

II 

How  fair  is  the  dawn  of  the  day,  how  calm  is  the 
measureless  sea! 

Is  there  anywhere  token  of  pity  or  foresight  of 
horror  to-be? 

Soon,  on  the  flash,  shall  follow  the  thunder's  re 
verberant  tread, 

Soon,  ah,  how  soon,  my  comrades,  the  crest  of  the 
wave  shall  blush  red ! 

But  we  —  we  are  trimmed  for  the  fight,  and  ready 
we  wait  the  command! 

(Hush,  sprinkle  the  deck  with  sand!) 


47 


Ill 

Here,  when  we  fall,  O  my  comrades,  under  the 
shattering  fire, 

Here  on  no  tender  sward  the  flickering  life  shall 
expire; 

Here  shall  no  soothing  murmur  from  forest  or  farm 
land  be  borne, 

Speeding  the  soul  with  a  dream  out  of  Childhood 
dreaming  at  morn ; 

But  afar  we  shall  die  from  the  mothering  Earth  and 
our  own  native  Land. 

(Hush,  sprinkle  the  deck  with  sand!) 

IV 

Lest  in  the  welter  of  blood  one  should  fall  on  the 

slippery  floor, 
The  avid  dust  shall  drink  the  costly  libation  we 

pour! 
Is  it  dust  from  the  shores  of  home  ?  —  we  will  slake 

its  thirst  with  a  will; 
Each  drop  as  it  mingles  therewith  shall  be  conscious 

of  fealty  still! 
Sworn  were  we  ever  to  this  —  now  the  hour  and 

the  test  are  at  hand ! 
(So!  sprinkle  the  deck  with  sand!) 


THE  BRONZES  OF  EPIRUS 

Wherefore,  Athena,  with  the  brows  severe, 
Wherefore  forever  lackest  thou  the  spear  ? 
O  sacred  Zeus,  thy  sceptre  —  vanished  where, 
Where,  Delphic  One,  thy  bow  high-poised  in  air? 

With  scornful  lip  the  Bronzes  seemed  to  speak: 
"  And  ask  ye  this,  of  us?     Those  soldiers  seek 
(If  ye  in  dust  may  find  their  base-knit  clay) 
Who  our  eternal  symbols  bore  away. 
Go,  ask  the  Roman  hireling  why  we  stand 
Devoid  of  gifts  and  of  the  giving  hand! 

"  What  deity  could  yield,  their  sordid  grasp 
Did  for  a  little  lifetime  vilely  clasp ; 
But  us  they  left,  in  moldering  earth  forgot 
Until  an  age  that  knows  and  worships  not 
Hath  reared  us  up,  and  bade  its  world  behold 
What  dreams  of  beauty  brake  the  sleep  of  them  of 
old! 

"  See  that  ye  do  not  thus,  yourselves,  today,  — 
Ignore  the  God,  while  ye  his  gifts  purvey." 


49 


THE  FULL  CUP 

Look!  this  fragile  cup  may  hold 
Either  draught  of  liquid  gold, 
Rippling  from  a  warmer  age, 
Or  the  hemlock  of  the  sage ! 
Be  it  cordial,  be  it  bane, 
That  is  poured  for  man  to  drain, 
Equally  this  facile  cup 
Would  be  filled  and  rounded  up. 

Such,  O  human  heart,  must  be  — 
Such  the  chalice  formed  for  thee, 
Which  thy  Fate  and  Genius  fill 
With  such  madness  as  they  will ; 
But  whate'er  the  cup  contains, 
Thou  wouldst  drink  it  to  the  drains! 
'Tis  not  what  the  cup  may  hold,  — 
'Tis  its  fullness  makes  thee  bold. 

Drinking  —  thou  wouldst  meet  thy  foe, 
And  his  spirit,  with  a  blow, 
Like  a  flint-shed  spark,  efrorce 
From  the  unremembering  corse; 
Thou  wouldst  desolate  the  world, 
Yet  thy  challenge  would  be  hurled 
(Though  the  Furies  should  await), — • 
"  I  have  no  regret,  —  I  hate!" 

Drinking  —  thou,  for  Love,  wouldst  bear 

Servile  toil,  and  fetters  wear ; 

And  if  Pity  came  thy  way, 

Thou  wouldst  smile  on  her,  and  say: 

"  Thee  and  thine  I  live  above ; 

I  have  no  regret  —  I  love!  " 

'Tis  not  what  the  cup  may  hold,  — 

'Tis  its  fullness  makes  thee  bold. 


THE  BIRDS'  LOVER 

He  has  conned  the  speech  of  birds 
And  can  give  it  human  words ; 
He  has  every  call  by  rote, 
And  can  answer  note  for  note. 
On  the  forest  edge  he  stands  ; 
Palm  to  palm  he  lays  his  hands, 
And  with  whistled  challenge  clear 
Bids  the  forest  folk  appear. 
Many  a  shy,  dark-loving  sprite 
Then  will  leave  its  greenwood  night, 
Flitting  on  from  spray  to  spray, 
Into  unaccustomed  day: 
Fluttering  wings  and  answering  song 
Follow,  follow  him  along! 

He  has  conned  those  legends  old 
By  the  birds'  own  brothers  told 
(Brothers  of  the  birds  are  they 
Who  the  Muses'  call  obey)  ; 
He  can  tell  you  why  the  swallow 
New,  oblivious  joys  would  follow; 
Why  the  nightingale  is  fair 
With  sweet  Sorrow  to  remain; 
Why  by  streams  that  greet  the  sea 
Ever  stays  Alcyone! 
These  dim  legends  he  can  tell  ; 
Later  lore  he  knows  as  well : 
He  hath  news  from  lands  afar, 
Where  the  chosen  havens  are 
Of  the  redbreast  and  the  thrush. 

When  the  winter  here  saith  "  Hush!  " 
Least  and  greatest  bring  him  word, 
From  the  crane  to  humming-bird  ; 


This,  from  mild  Floridian  shore, 
That,  from  sun-gilt  Salvador! 
Time  of  nests  and  time  of  broods, 
Singing-tides,  and  songless  moods, 
These  he  marks  in  order  due; 
And  he  marks  the  season,  too, 
When  the  goldfinch  casts  away 
Winter-coat  of  ashen  gray. 
He  the  snowy  owl  hath  found 
Shedding  slumber  all  around, 
And  the  oven-bird's  low  nest 
'Mid  the  shadows  it  loves  best; 
And  when  wild  fowl  southward  go, 
Dark  across  the  afterglow, 
He  the  hieroglyph  can  read 
Which  they  trace  as  on  they  speed. 

To  the  birds  he  is  akin ; 
More  and  more  his  thought  they  win 
Birdlike  are  his  motions  light, 
Birdlike  are  his  glances  bright, 
Birdlike  is  his  voice  —  ah,  well ! 
He  some  day  with  birds  may  dwell 
(Changed,  as  in  those  fables  old, 
Kinfolk  of  the  birds  have  told)  ; 
On  some  autumn  eve  unknown, 
Far  with  them  he  will  have  flown, 
And  immortal  will  be  crowned  — 
Since  no  dead  bird  have  we  found ! 


52 


TRANSMIGRANTS 

It  was  the  Life  beyond  all  life, 

It  was  the  World  all  worlds  beyond ; 
And  there  was  neither  doubt  nor  strife, 

And  there  was  neither  bar  nor  bond. 
For  other  Light  than  of  the  sun 

Arose,  the  lilied  fields  to  bless; 
And  mortal  day-and-night  was  done, 

And  mortal  grief  and  heaviness. 
But  two,  from  earth  transmigrant  bound,  — 

The  Soul  of  Her,  the  Soul  of  Him,  — 
Some  broken  links  of  Memory  found, 

As  down  they  stooped  to  Lethe's  brim. 

"  So  thou  wast  not  my  bounden  foe, 

But  shouldst  have  been,  on  earth,  my  mate  ; 
How  many  times  thou  gav'st  the  blow 

That  sent  me  through  the  Hidden  Gate!  " 
"And  thou  ?  —  thou  wast  not,  then,  my  foe, 

But  shouldst  have  been,  on  earth,  my  mate! 
How,  other  times,  thou  gav'st  the  blow 

That  sent  me  through  the  Hidden  Gate!  " 

"  Once,  Vestal,  thou  didst  make  the  sign 

That  on  my  lips  stark  silence  set  —  " 
"  Samnite,  that  dying  look  of  thine 

My  soul  could  nevermore  forget! 
But  thou,  amidst  the  chariots'  rush 

In  the  great  Siege  didst  strike  me  down  —  " 
"  Pucelle,  thy  cry  no  years  could  hush, 

No  clang  of  after-wars  could  drown! 


53 


Once,  on  the  gleaming  steppe  I  died, 

Thine  exile  in  the  frosty  zone  —  " 
"  The  wind,  that  round  my  casement  sighed 

Forever  brought  thy  passing  moan! 
Once  breathed  on  me  a  slanderous  breath, 

Within  an  oubliette  was  I  pent  —  " 
"  I  looked  upon  thy  face  in  death 

And  knew  thee  surely  innocent! 
But  yesteryear,  ay,  yesterday, 

My  life,  a  wreck  upon  thy  sea, 
Wide  open  to  all  ruin  lay  —  " 

"  Spirit,  that  wrong  drove  sleep  from  me! 
Thou,  too !  —  the  hour  is  scarcely  past, 

When,  like  a  reed,  thou  brok'st  my  heart, 
And  like  a  reed  away  didst  cast  —  " 

"  For  that,  mine  lodged  this  lethal  dart!  " 

"  So,  thou  wast  not  my  bounden  foe, 

But  shouldst  have  been,  on  earth,  my  mate : 
No  more  I  strike  the  killing  blow, 

No  more  thy  hand  shall  be  my  fate !  " 
"Ay,  thou  wast  not  my  bounden  foe  — 

Thou  shouldst  have  been,  on  earth,  my  mate ; 
But  we  no  more  to  earth  shall  go, 

And  Knowledge  dawns  on  us  too  late!  " 

This  in  the  Life  beyond  all  life, 

This,  in  the  World  all  worlds  beyond.    .    .    . 
Then,  Memory  grew  a  sheathed  knife, 

And  there  was  neither  bar  nor  bond ! 


AT  LETHE'S  BRINK 


Ye  souls,  of  life  too  fond, 
Why  seek  to  carry  memory  to  the  shades,  — 
Those  blessed  seats  in  the  deep  meads  and  glades  ? 

For  me,  I  have  been  bond 
To  griefs  too  many,  and  to  joys  too  fierce: 
Let  neither  with  remembrance  longer  pierce! 

Lead  me,  Caducean  wand, 
Where  the  green  turf  with  Lethe-dew  is  wet ; 
There,  my  burnt,  throbbing  temples  will  I  steep  ; 

I  would  forget     . 
Oh,  let  me  sink  in  the  Great  Deep  of  Sleep ! 

II 

Why  would  ye  beckon  dreams? 
To  set  the  thorn,  where  never  grew  the  thorn? 
To  make  sweet  rest  a  mockery  forlorn  ? 

To  give  the  silent  streams 
Of  this  fair,  twilight  Country,  where  we  go, 
The  burden  of  the  song  we  too  well  know  ? 

To  feign  the  hot  noon  beams 

Strike  the  bow'd  head  (where  noon  came  never  yet)  ? 
Far,  far  from  me  the  soothless  dream-throng  keep ! 

I  would  forget     . 
Oh,  let  me  sink  in  the  Great  Deep  of  Sleep ! 


55 


Ill 

Ay,  bid  adieu  to  all; 

Nor  grieve  that  one,  the  sweetest,  stays  behind. 
Be  deaf  unto  his  cries ;  and  be  ye  blind 

To  looks  that  would  enthrall  ; 
For  Love,  most  far  of  all  the  clamant  throng 
That  held  the  fevered  hands  of  Life  so  long, 

Follows  with  haunting  call : 
Hence,  most  of  all,  to  him  the  bound  be  set  — 
Between  us,  thrice  the  lustral  waters  creep! 

I  must  forget     . 
Oh,  let  me  sink  in  the  Great  Deep  of  Sleep ! 

IV 

But  ye ;  why  doubt  to  drink,  — 
Ye  spirits  that  from  many  a  land  and  zone 
Of  the  wide  earth,  with  me  are  hither  blown,  — 

Why  stand  ye  at  the  brink 

A  timorous  throng,  who,  erewhiles,  have  besought 
That  ye  might  cease  from  toils,*  from  strife,  from 
thought? 

Why,  therefore,  do  ye  shrink? 
Follow,  and  quaff  with  closed  eye;  and  let 
The     sight     draw     inward,     while     the     shadows 
sweep.     .     . 

I  would  forget     .     .     . 
And  now    ...    I  sink  in  the  Great  Deep  of  Sleep. 


LOVE  UNUTTERED 

As  if,  within  the  sylvan  center  of  the  land, 
There  were  a  nameless  lake  no  sail  had  ever  fanned  ; 
As  if  amidst  that  lake  a  wooded  island  showed ; 
As  if  within  that  isle  a  spring  in  silence  flowed ; 
As  if,  within  a  dell  this  spring  kept  ever  green, 
A  flower  shot  forth ;  as  if  within  the  flower,  unseen, 
A  drop  of  dew  reposed  —  so  many  times  removed, 
So  secret,  and  so  safe,  so  lone  and  all  unproved, 
Is  Love  Unuttered !    In  the  constant  heart  it  lies, 
All  darkling,  fresh  and  pure,  as  night-dew  from  the 

skies, 
Ere  yet  it  meets  the  ardent  morning's  thousand  eyes. 

THE  DEAD   BIRTHDAY 

Lo,  how  they  all  return  unto  the  light, 

The  flowers  that  slept  but  late  the  winter  sleep ! 

They  feel  the  sun  of  spring  is  at  its  height  ; 

And  through  the  clods  their  arrowy  path  they  keep. 

Lo,  how  they  all  return !  but  thou,  but  thou 
(Lover  of  theirs,  and  loved  of  them,  I  deem), 
Thou  goest  hence,  descending  darkward  now, 
While  they,  unwitting,  seek  the  vernal  beam. 

And  it  may  be,  that  they  will  heedless  run, 
And  fling  fresh  bloom  above  thy  closed  door  ; 
But  —  thou  beyond  the  quest  of  air  and  sun  — 
Full  handfuls  I  shall  bring  to  thee  no  more. 

No  more,  as  in  this  month  that  held  thy  birth, 
I  brought  them,  with  a  song  for  May  and  thee! 
Thou  hast  no  longer  any  years  on  earth ; 
And  the  lost  day,  henceforth,  no  song  for  me. 


57 


THE  THROBBING  OF  THE  AIR 


Thither,  my  heart! 

(Thou,  so  long  blind, 
Thou,  so  long  grieving  apart!) 
Thither,  where  marginless  rivers  of  tremulous  air 
Over  the  far,  green,  happy  meadows  wind, 
Thither  carry  thy  quest,  my  heart,  and  find 
What  Other  Heart  is  beating  there! 

II 

Thou  hast  questioned  the  Dawn 

And  the  deep-browed  Night,  — 
Still,  the  veil  was  undrawn ! 
Now,  ask  thou  of  kindred  things  the  long-sought 

boon: 
The  dark  and  the  dim  were  not  kindred  —  but 

Fervor  and  Light. 
Seek  thou  what  Other  Heart,  half-veiled  to  thy 

sight,  »• 

Beats  in  the  glowing  candor  of  Noon ! 


THE  COURAGE  OF  THE  LOST 

There  be  who  are  afraid  to  fear, 

The  myrmidons  of  Hope ! 
Their  watchword  cannot  lend  me  cheer 

'Gainst  that  with  which  I  cope ! 

There  is  a  courage  of  the  lost, 

Who  sail  uncharted  seas, 
Past  many  a  firm,  or  flying  coast, 

And  I  must  sail  with  these. 

There  is  a  valor  of  the  slain, 
Who  strive  past  mortal  sight 

While  their  spent  corses  strew  the  plain, 
And  I  must  fight  their  fight. 

Hast  thou  that  courage  of  the  lost, 
Past  theirs,  that  reach  their  goal? 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  I  thee  accost  — 
Thou  Comrade  of  my  Soul! 

Thou  dost  not  fear  to  fear  —  ah,  no ! 

The  depths  wilt  thou  descend; 
And  when  thy  planet  sinketh  low 

Wilt  make  of  Night  a  friend ! 

Then  come!     We  two  are  proof,  at  last, 

We  dare  our  fears  to  own; 
But  had  our  lot  with  Hope  been  cast 

What  heart-break  had  we  known ! 


59 


AVALON  — FAIR  AVALON 

Now,  while  the  leaf-flocks  rise  upon  the  wind, 
Now,   while   the   grass-blade   blanches   with   the 

frost, 

Find  we  that  Isle  (of  yore  not  hard  to  find)  — 
Refuge  of  all  sweet  things  in  old  time  lost ! 

Out  of  a  world  that  grows  austere  and  bleak, 
'Tis  Avalon  —  fair  Avalon  I  seek ! 

Thou  wilt  not  trust  that  such  a  realm  may  be  ? 

In  the  mid-rapture  of  her  Perfect  Day, 
Did  Summer  never  whisper  unto  thee : 
"  Follow  where  undivided  is  my  sway!  " 

Thus,  to  my  spirit,  did  the  Summer  speak  — 
And  Avalon  —  fair  Avalon  I  seek ! 

I  heard  the  farewell  vesper  of  the  thrush, 

The  meadow-haunting  plover's  last  good-night; 
The  floating  call,  amid  the  twilight  hush, 

Of   wild   fowl,    that   would    thither   wing   their 

flight: 
Weak,   though   they  be,   their  courage  is  not 

weak ; 
And  I  —  fair  Avalon  I,  also,  seek! 

Why  cling  to  unleafed  grove  and  leafless  field  ? 
Why  linger  till  the  dearth  of  wintry  hours  ? 
Why  bear  the  wound  that  may  be  closed  and  healed 
With    balm    nepenthean    pressed    from    wizard 

flowers, 

While  thornless  roses  pillow  thy  pale  cheek? 
'Tis  Avalon  —  fair  Avalon  I  seek! 


60 


There  be  so  many  there  of  dear  esteem  — 

There  be  so  many  there  that  were  storm-tossed, 
That  ventured  all  for  sake  of  some  great  Dream  ; 
And  there  they  found  what  they  had  deemed  was 

lost! 

O  Isle  of  all  desire,  from  days  antique  — 
'Tis  Avalon  —  fair  Avalon  I  seek ! 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  SEASONS 

'Twas  Winter,  but  one  moment  past,  — 
Autumn,  —  so  little  time  gone  by  ; 

Ere  that,  the  Summer,  —  Spring !  —  how  fast, 
How  fast  the  circling  Seasons  fly! 

They  dance  to  music  strange !  —  I  sigh, 
Borne  on,  amidst  their  giddy  round ; 

Forever  will  they  whirl,  —  but  I 

Some  day  with  them  shall  not  be  found ! 


61 


SONNETS 


NEW  HORIZONS 

There  are  horizons  for  the  wistful  soul 
Compelled  in  narrow  heritage  to  bide: 
I  saw  the  sunset  from  the  riverside; 
Then  straight  I  climbed  a  little  flame-lit  knoll, 

And  there  beheld  the  golden  chariot  roll 

Through    cloudy    splendors,    bannered    pageants 

wide. 

Then,  from  my  chamber,  I  once  more  descried 
The  fervid  wheel  turning  the  western  goal. 

And  last,  my  mountain  in  the  east  resigned 

Her  bright  tiara  borrowed  from  the  sun. 

Now,  air  and  earth  were  merged  in  eventide, 
And  I,  with  them,  in  peace,  while  something  sighed : 

"  Put  thoughts  of  far  adventure  from  thy  mind  ; 

Try  heights  for  new  horizons,  restless  one !  " 


A  THANKFUL  SOJOURNER 

"One  world  at  a  time."  —  Thoreau. 

O  ye,  whose  spirit-sight,  more  keen  than  mine, 
A  sovran  signal  doth  from  far  descry, 
Monitions  clear,  and  grace  to  live  thereby  — 

Freeholders  of  a  city  all  divine; 

Who  see  another  luminary  shine 

Behind  the  orb  that  fills  with  light  yon  sky  — 
Pardon  a  childlike,  wonder-widened  eye, 

Pleased  with  but  tokens  of  the  Great  Design! 

Pardon!  —  He  pardons  me,  I  rest  secure, 

He  who  this  world  and  all  worlds  did  create,  - 
(Even  that  other  world  which  ye  discern), 
He  pardons  me  my  joy,  so  warm  and  pure, 
In  this,  His  lovely  earth,  our  gracious  state, 
Where,  thankful,  for  a  time  I  do  sojourn. 


66 


THE  TIDE  OF  THE  PAST 

Sometimes  the  troubled  tide  of  all  the  Past 
Upon  my  spirit's  trembling  strand  is  rolled; 
Years  never  mine  —  ages  an  hundredfold, 
With  all  the  weight  those  ages  have  amassed 

Of  human  grief  and  wrong,  are  on  me  cast. 
Within  one  sorcerous  moment  I  grow  old, 
And  blanch  as  one  who  scarce  his  way  can  hold, 
Upon  a  verge  that  takes  some  flood-tide  vast. 

Then  comes  relief  through  some  dear  common  thing : 
The  voices  of  the  children  at  their  play ; 
The  wind-wave  through  bright  meadows,  moving 
fast  ; 

The  bluebird's  skyward  call,  on  happy  wing: 
So  the  sweet  Present  reassumes  her  sway ; 
So  lapse  the  surges  of  the  monstrous  Past. 

THE  BLESSED  PRESENT 

Pluck  me  yon  rose,  but  say  not :    "  'Twill  not  last !  " 
Or  that  "  Tomorrow's  rose  may  be  more  sweet." 
Say  not,  the  darling  bird  I  hear,  will  fleet 
When  its  green  summer  home  yields  to  the  blast. 

This  moment,  freed  from  Fear,  that  shrank  aghast — 
From  Hope,  that  ran  on  wing'd,  mercurial  feet, 
I,  Sovereign  of  the  Present,  hold  my  seat ! 
All  smile  on  me,  and  smiles  on  all  I  cast. 

Oh,  hitherto,  my  love,  I  have  been  thrall 
To  the  old  Past,  dim  ringing  with  regret; 
Or  else,  uncertain  days  of  bliss  to-be 

Made  me  all  restless  with  their  veering  call: 
But  thou  bestowest  wealth  I  ne'er  had  yet  — 
The  blessed  Present  thou  dost  bring  to  me ! 


THE  NESTING-PLACE 

When  back  upon  the  soft  south  wind  they  roam, 
Mark  how  each  bird,  by  instinct  subtly  willed, 
Erelong  begins  to  seek  where  it  shall  build : 
High  in  the  elm  the  oriole  makes  her  home  ; 

Beneath  the  eaves  the  swallow  shapes  the  loam  ; 
The  house-wren's  note  all  day  is  never  stilled ; 
The  little  finch's  heart  with  joy  is  filled, 
To  find  a  hollow  with  a  grassy  dome. 

Dost  think  the  birds  alone  have  this  fine  art, 
To  know  and  choose  what  place  for  each  is  best, 
And  there  return  and  find  a  sheltering  nest, 

Howe'er  abroad  in  roving  sport  they  dart? 
I,  too,  have  a  wise  spirit  in  my  breast, 
I  would  not  build  at  all  except  within  thy  heart! 

RECEPTIVITY 

O  all  ye  boundless  powers  of  light  and  air, 
That  break  the  morning  to  a  wistful  world, 
That  tint  with  rose  the  column  slow  upcurled 
From  homely  hearths  of  men  — it  is  your  care 
To  see  refreshment  poured  out  everywhere,  — 
Each  one  of  million  flowers  with  dew  impearled, 
And  breathe  the  soul  of  flight  to  wings  close  furled : 
Glad  must  ye  be,  such  gifts  abroad  to  bear. 
Yet,  ah !  the  little  flower  with  brimful  urn, 
The  wakened  bird  that  now  resumes  its  song, 
How  glad  are  they  with  merely  being  blest! 
They  need  do  nothing  more.     From  them  I  learn 
How  simply  sweet  it  is,  the  whole  day  long  — 
My  Love,  within  the  bounty  of  thy  love  to  rest! 


68 


WHEN,  MUSE? 

When,  Muse,  when  shall  the  wondrous  time  revive, 
That  sees  the  withered  sward  of  Hippocrene 
With  recreating  dew  of  song  grow  green, 
And  the  dry  thorns  Pierian  blush  alive,  — 
Break  forth  in  bloom  that  draws  the  murmuring 

hive? 

When,  when  shall  youthful  acolytes  be  seen 
Urging  some  poet-peer  of  silvery  mien 
To  sing  for  them  —  enchained  in  sportive  gyve  ? 
For  now,  with  pipes  untuned  are  we  content, 
With  soulless  themes  diurnal  that  discard 
The  long-descended  priesthood  of  the  bard ; 
So  rarely  now,  a  trembling  ear  is  lent 
Unto  the  sires  of  song,  whose  brows  are  starred, 
Whose  alien  music  dieth  heavenward. 

REVIVAL  OF  ROMANCE 

Too  long,  too  long  we  keep  the  level  plain, 

The    tilled,    tame    fields,    the    bending    orchard 

bough ! 

The  byre,  the  barn,  the  threshing-floor,  the  plow 
Too  long  have  been  our  theme  and  our  refrain ! 

Enough,  my  brothers,  of  this  Doric  strain ! 
Lift  up  your  spirits,  and  record  a  vow 
To  gather  laurel  from  the  mountain's  brow, 
And  bring  the  era  of  rich  verse  again ! 

Ye  painters,  paint  great  Nature  at  her  height  — 
Seas,  forests,  cliffs  up  reared  in  liquid  air, 
And  touch  with  glamour  all  things  rough  and 
crude. 

And  ye  who  fiction  weave  for  our  delight, 

Give  us  brave  men,  and  women  good  as  fair  — 
And  shame  our  hollow  Sadducean  mood ! 


REPROOF  FROM  THE  MUSE 

To  me  this  voice  from  far  Pieria  came : 

"  Choose    any    theme.     There's   nothing    great   or 

small 

But  on  its  head  eternal  light  shall  fall, 
Nor  any  land  so  summitless  and  tame, 
But  shall  be  winnowed  by  the  wings  of  Fame, 
If  one  of  mine  be  there,  to  disenthrall 
The  soul,  and  join  it  with  the  Soul  of  All, 
That  giveth  crystal  sight  and  tongues  of  flame. 
I  hear  thy  low  repinings.     Thine  the  fault, 
If  nothing  near  thee  moves  thy  breast  to  song: 
Thy  mornings  are  new-lit,  thine  evenings  starred, 
Thy  wind-blown  forests  are  with  joy  exalt, 
Thy  threshold  birds  are  singing  all  day  long  — 
Not  thou  dost  lack  a  Theme,  but  these  a  Bard !  " 

THE  LIFE-MASK  OF  KEATS 

Whether,  uplifting  slow  his  dreamful  head, 
He  leaves  a  couch  the  fragran rapine  has  strown, 
Whether  the  dim,  enchanted  woods  have  known 

The  sleeper's  unimperiled  velvet  tread; 

Or  whether,  through  some  winding  cavern  led, 
That,   like   the   shell,    rings   drear  with   ocean's 

moan, 
He  wanders  till  the  sea,  wide,  bright,  and  lone, 

Beneath  his  visionary  eye  is   spread  — 

Whether  awake,  or  still  by  slumber  bound, 
Behold  that  shepherd  with  a  world  foregone, 
To  hoard  the  white  rays  of  a  mystic  Dawn,  — 

A  listener  to  aerial  silver  sound, 

With    subtle    moonlight    smile    devote,     with 
drawn,  — 

Behold   Endymion,  whom  a  Love  unknown   hath 
crowned ! 


70 


THE  BREATH  OF  HAMPSTEAD  HEATH 

The   wind   of    Hampstead    Heath   still   burns   my 

cheek 

As,  home  returned,  I  muse,  and  see  arise 
Those  rounded  hills  beneath  the  low,  gray  skies, 
With  gleams  of  haze-lapped  cities  far  to  seek. 

These  can  I  picture,  but  how  fitly  speak 

Of  what  might  not  be  seen  with  searching  eyes, 
And  all  beyond  the  listening  ear  that  lies, 
Best  known  to  bards  and  seers  in  times  antique  ? 

The  winds  that  of  the  spirit  rise  and  blow 

Kindle  my  thought,  and  shall  for  many  a  day, 
Recalling  what  blithe  presence  filled  the  place, 

Of  one  who  oftentimes  passed  up  that  way, 

By  garden-close  and  lane  where  boughs  bend  low, 
Until  the  breath  of  Hampstead  touched  his  face. 

THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS 

I  have  beheld  that  grave,  with  violets  dim, 
In  the  great  Cassars'  City  where  he  sleeps : 
And,  over  it,  a  little  laurel  sweeps, 

Fruited  and  leafed  eternally  for  him; 

Not  far  away,  a  pine,  of  sturdier  limb. 

Leaf,  flower,  and  grass  the  mellow  sunlight  steeps, 
And  this  dear  grave!     Ah,  how  the  soul  upleaps, 

The  breath  comes  tremblingly,  and  the  eyes  swim ! 

In  dreams  that  bordered  close  the  sleep  of  death, 
He  felt  the  blowing  flowers  above  his  breast: 

This  moment  I  behold  a  wondrous  thing  — 

These  blossoms,  stirring  in  the  wind's  light  breath, 
Do  they  not  feel  (above  all  violets  blest) 

The  ever-vital  dust  from  whence  they  spring! 


OLD-WORLD  BRIDGES 

How  many  bridges  in  how  many  a  land 
These  feet  of  mine  at  varying  pace  have  crossed ! 
The   blue-green   Reuss,   chilled   thro'   with   Alpine 
frost, 

By  ancient  beam  and  pictured  rafter  spanned, 

Where  the  quaint  Musegg  and  Lucerna  stand ; 
Or  Ponte  Vecchio,  with  its  shops  embossed, 
Where  Arno,  soon  in  violet  distance  lost, 

Weaves    on     and     outward     to    the    Tyrrhene 

strand.  — 
Yet,  ever  as  I  crossed,  with  me  there  crossed 

Spirits  of  other  time,  —  an  urgent  band : 

Swart  men-at-arms,  princes  of  proud  command ; 
And  then,  as  if  to  foil  that  austere  host, 
Would  pass  some  musing  lover's  tender  ghost, 

Or  child  and  mother,  linked  hand  in  hand. 

THE  DUOMO 

(FLORENCE) 

• 

Twilight  the  hour.     How  doubly  twilight  here, 
Where  early  blent  are  roof  and  architrave 
(As  in  a  mountain  hollowed  to  a  cave), 
And  ev'n  the  glance  of  noonday  is  austere ! 

Now,  what  reverberations  fill  the  ear, 

As  though  commingling  storm  and  torrent  gave 
Some   waste   place   speech,    or   prophet   message 

clave, 
For  the  first  time,  a  desert  vast  and  drear! 

Source  of  the  sounds,  beyond  the  altar  high,  — 
A  preaching  monk.     His  burden  he  repeats: 

"  Gesii  e'  Cristo!  "     How  his  accents  thrill, 
As,  in  the  wild,  the  first  evangel  cry !     .     .     . 
And  still,   I   hear  them,   'midst  the  murmuring 

streets, 
In  twilight  Florence,  medieval  still. 

72 


THE  CATHEDRAL  MURMUR 

(COLOGNE) 

There  is  a  murmur  of  the  ocean  cave, 
A  dream-of-sound  of  far-retiring  seas  ; 
There  is  a  whisper  of  the  legion  trees, 
In  long  uprolling,  long  receding  wave : 

Through  both  is  heard  one  Voice,  insistent,  grave. 
And  there  is  utterance  akin  to  these: 
Hark  how  it  rises,  deepens,  by  degrees, 
Until  it  floods  the  vast  cathedral  nave ! 

It  seems,  at  first,  a  ringing  in  the  ear, 
Organic  rhythm  from  the  pulses  cast; 
But  soon  the  listener  in  awe  will  start, 

For  he  the  lingering  orisons  shall  hear  — 
The  choral  sigh,  of  all  who,  in  the  past, 
Here  bent  the  knee,  here  gave  the  broken  heart! 


73 


THE  CAVES  OF  THE  COVENANTER 

Here  is  no  altar,  here  no  aisled  nave; 

Nor  chantry  for  the  hymns  of  heaven ;  nor  stall 
For  prayer  retired,  nor  high,  impictured  wall; 

Not  such  to  you  the  Great  Commander  gave. 

Yours  the  rough  waste,  the  winding  rift  and  cave; 
Yours  the  cold  springs  that  unseen  rise  and  fall, 
And  yours  the  purple  heather  mantling  all, 

O'erhanging  roof  and  living  architrave! 

Your  hearts  have  long  been  quiet,  and  the  Word 
Hath  passed  to  other  lips.    .    .    .    Nay!  can  it  be 

Yon  curtain  of  the  purple  heather  stirred? 
A  signal  flashed  ?     A  whisper  grew  ?  and  ye 

Have  vanished  all  within  the  sheltering  cleft? 

How  hushed  with  prayer  the  temple  ye  have  left ! 

OUT  OF  A  THOUSAND 

As  at  Cremona,  home  of  chorded  sound, 
Some  master-workman,  plying  his  loved  trade, 
When  he  a  thousand  violins  hath  made, 
Makes  one  that  shall  be  heard  the  world  around : 
Nor  knows  he  how  his  wonted  toil  was  crowned  ; 
For  if  that  wizard  instrument  be  weighed,  — 
By  every  test  of  sight  and  touch  assayed  — 
Not  other  than  its  congeners  't  is  found. 

So  is  it  with  the  work  that  thou  dost  frame, 
O  Bard !     Among  ten  thousand  fading  lines, 
Thou  shalt,  perchance    (but  not  through  studious 

zeal, 

Nor  lust  for  current  praise  or  future  fame), 
Achieve  a  single  peerless  verse  that  shines 
Emblazoned  with  a  translunary  seal! 


74 


TO  ONE  WHO  SLEEPS 

As  Atys  slept  beneath  the  ancient  fir, 

Nor  all  the  tears  a  goddess  could  but  weep, 
Restored  the  orbed  light,  the  pulse's  leap  — 

As  Atys  slept,  while  but  one  finger's  stir 
Showed  life  yet  dwelling  with  the  slumberer; 

So,  too,  within  thy  spirit's  donjon-keep, 
Art  thou,  through  all  thy  days,  asleep,  asleep ! 

And  I  to  wake  thee,  find  no  potent  spur. 

Oh,  wouldst  thou  put  to  proof  a  finger's  power, 
And  win,  —  where  lesser  ones  the  right  arm  bare ! 

Time  speeds.     'Tis  no  Immortal  mourns  thy  lot; 
But  when  some  sylvan  year  his  leaves  shall  shower, 

I  shall  stoop  homeward,  and  forget  sweet  care  — 
Sweet  care  that  watched  and  wept  —  but  woke 
thee  not! 

THE  MIRAGE  OF  THE  HOMESICK 

I  knew  not  how  I  loved  thee  —  thou,  my  land 
(Mine  and  my  fathers'  land,  in  very  deed)  — 
"Until  embarked  I  watched  the  pier  recede, 
Tear-dimmed,  and  dim  with  many  a  waving  hand. 

Still,  all  the  onward  day,  that  farewell  band, 
Undistanced  by  the  steamer's  throbbing  speed, 
Arose,  with  tender,  outstretched  palms,  to  plead, 
"  Return,  return,  exile  from  Heaven's  strand !  " 

Aye,  all  day  long,  though  past  the  glimpse  of  thee,  — 
O  land,  my  own,  —  far  on  the  restless  verge, 
Between  the  hollow  and  the  foam-flecked  surge, 

Many  a  meadow-vale  I  seemed  to  see  — 

White  spire,  and  village-green,  and  orchard  tree 
Lift  from  the  deep,  within  the  deep  to  merge! 


75 


DUAL  HOMESICKNESS 

Whilst  I  in  Old-World  capitals  sojourned,  — 
In  storied  cities,  rich  with  Time's  acquest,  — 
A  pilgrim  from  our  wide,  unstoried  West, 
Forever  homeward  I  in  spirit  turned: 

For  me  through  each  Atlantic  sunset  burned 

My  homeland  dawn  in  braver  splendor  dressed. 
The  bird  divine  that  sang  from  bosky  nest, 
Beside  my  brown-thrush  scanty  tribute  earned. 

But  now,  when  I  once  more  sit  down  at  home, 

What  fond  perversity  my  soul  pursues ! 

She  roves  afar,  beyond  her  native  pale, 
And  slips  Manhattan  Isle  to  pace  through  Rome; 

Or    leaves    the    brown-thrush    for    the    winged 
Muse  — 

For  moonlit  Cadenabbia's  nightingale. 

SPEAKING  THE  SHIPS 

Untraveled  dweller  by  the  haven-side, 
I  saw  the  great  ships  come,  sojourn  a  day, 
Then  set  their  eager  sails,  their  anchor  weigh, 
And  give  themselves  to  rocking  wind  and  tide. 

I  spake  them  not,  nor  they  to  me  replied, 

Of  where  their  void  and  lonely  journey  lay; 
Now,  since  my  lips  have  tasted  mid-sea  spray, 
In  common  speech  I  hail  those  wanderers  wide. 

To  this:    "  Proud  Scotia  gave  thy  ribs  to  thee!  " 
To  this:     "Thy  masts  have  known  the  Apen 
nines!" 

Or,    "  Tagus    empties    where    thy    frame    was 
planned." 

Or,  "  Say,  thou  gallant  one,  if  true  it  be, 

Thou  hither  cam'st  with  hoard  of  Levant  wines 
And  dulcet  fruits  from  many  a  sun-loved  land !  " 


76 


THE  GENIUS  OF  THE  CITY 

City  beloved !     Magnet  of  ardent  souls, 

Focus  of  life  concentric  and  of  art! 

Runs  not  a  unity  through  every  part  — 
One  current  through  the  human  tide  that  rolls, 
Howe'er  thy  pilgrims  haste  to  scattered  goals? 

Ofttimes,  amidst  thy  hurrying  throngs,  I  start, 

As  at  the  impact  of  a  beating  heart  — 
Some  sovran  heart  of  hearts,  that  all  controls! 

It  is  thy  Genius!     Once  a  midday  chime 

For  one  swift  moment  rhythmic  utterance  lent  — 
The  next,  the  Voice  had  passed,  with  close  sublime ! 
And  once,  from  those  dark  towers  that  front  the  sea, 
A  Light  shot  forth  —  and  vanished !  'Twas,  to  me, 
A  spirit-glance  thy  watchful  Genius  sent. 

CITY  VISTAS 

Our  city  fronts  the  morning  wave,  and  greets 
Serene  all  comers;  and,  on  either  side, 
The  sailing  pines  of  nations  sundered  wide 
A  stately  river  in  its  journey  meets. 
How  I  have  loved  our  city's  vistaed  streets, 
That  like  some  Western  canon's  walls  divide, 
To  show  the  sunset's  purple  band,  where  ride 
Those    legend-haunted    masts    and    storm-strained 
sheets ! 

But  when  the  electric  lamps  their  argent  globes 
Float  in  mid-air,  and  in  the  upper  night 
Some  zenith  star  all  solitary  gleams, 
Or  when  in  morning  mists  our  city  robes, 
She  seems  created  by  some  wizard's  sleight, 
To  vanish  dream-like  on  the  tide  of  dreams! 


77 


LOST  CHILDREN 
(AT  THE  STATION-HOUSE) 

"  Leave  hope  behind,  all  ye  who  enter  here:  " 
As  the  sad  Florentine,  upon  the  gate 
Of  endless  night,  beheld  those  words  of  fate, 
So  darken  they  our  thought  as  we  draw  near 

These  haunts  unused  to  prayer  or  softening  tear. 
But  lo!  like  flowers  that  on  fire's  pathway  wait 
To  comfort  lands  laid  waste  and  desolate, 
How  the  lost  children  light  these  shadows  drear! 

As  tinkling  springs  that  on  a  sudden  greet 
The  traveler  in  a  wild,  rock-set  and  sear, 
So  rise  the  tones  of  childish  laughter  sweet  — 

Of  little  ones  beguiled  of  grief  and  fear. 
Then,  seems  some  tender  echo  to  repeat : 
"  There  yet  is  hope,  all  ye  who  enter  here!  " 

THE  FRIENDSHIP  OF  THE  STORM 

Between  a  Trouble  and  a  Grief  I  went 
Dumb  and  outworn,  and  sought  a  sheltering  spot 
Beneath  a  rock,  where  the  wild  winds  came  not ; 
That  there  my  soul,  sore-tortured  and  clean-spent, 
Might  find  such  breathing-space,  such  dull  content, 
As  chances  in  his  all-indifferent  lot, 
Who  hath  the  world  forgot,  and  is  forgot, 
Within  a  self-drawn  magic  circle  pent. 

But  ah,  that  place  of  peace  supplied  a  foil 
Whereon  more  dark  the  spirit's  strife  did  show! 
Henceforth,  I  seek  the  friendly  storm  —  to  win 
Such  solace  as  may  be  in  constant  toil 
With  wind  and  wave,  that  will  not  let  me  know 
The  fiercer  tempest  that  endures  within ! 


THE  VERGE  OF  TEARS 

There  was  a  moment  when  I  could  have  wept,  — 
Wept  from  a  full  heart :  all  the  cords  grew  tight, 
That  in  their  orbits  move  the  spheres  of  sight  ; 
Across  my  brain  the  blind  sirocco  swept ; 
My  throat  ached,  and  a  withering  palsy  crept 
Upon  my  tongue,  that  then  I  had  not  might 
To  fashion  forth  a  sound,  howe'er  so  slight. 
Still  and  appalled  my  soul  within  me  kept. 

Thou  who  hast  stood  upon  the  verge  of  tears,  — 
I  need  not  tell  thee  of  that  desolate  bourn, 
But  only  this :  when  thou  shalt  reach  the  verge, 
Be  thou  not  other  than  thy  human  peers ; 
Weep  then,  oh  weep !  lest  tears  unshed  return, 
And    be,    long    afterwards,    thy    spirit's    stinging 
scourge ! 

THE  MASTER-CHARM 

"Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  Morning- Star 
In  his  steep  course?"  — COLERIDGE. 

"  Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  Morning-star," 
Sole  lustre  on  the  dawn's  ethereal  field, 
Its  image  in  a  thousand  streams  revealed, 
And  broken  silverly  along  the  bar? 
Soon  and  swift  comes  Aurora's  flashing  car, 
When  all  the  throats  of  song  shall  be  unsealed, 
And  yearning  buds  their  stored  sweetness  yield  — 
"  Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  Morning-star?  " 

More  potent  knowledge !  sorcery  supreme ! 
More  sought  than  spells  of  Eastern  mages  are, 
Couldst  thou  prevail  to  hold  for  us  the  dream  — 
The  dew  —  the  mystery  —  the  dear  half-light 
That  are  no  more,  once  Youth  has  taken  flight : 
Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  our  Morning-star? 


79 


THE  FIRST  FIRE  OF  THE  SEASON 

The  first  fire  of  the  season  warms  my  hearth : 

Like  a  bright  moth  that  long  ensheathed  has  lain, 
Shaking  its  wings  of  many  an  orient  stain, 

It  leaves  the  prisoning  oak  log's  sturdy  girth. 

Fresh  with  the  new  old  gladness  of  the  earth, 
Renascent,  it  springs  forth:  and  I  am  fain 
(Having  beheld  the  Summer  droop  and  wane), 

To  think  that  here  she  has  her  true  rebirth. 
Ay  —  the  sweet  spirit  of  the  Summer  flown ! 
For,  when,  beside  the  fire,  I  close  my  eyes, 

I  hear  so  many  sounds  that  I  have  known, 
In  Summer  shade,  or  under  Summer  skies,  — 

The  whir  of  insects  in  the  fields  new  mown  — 
The  call  of  birds  —  and  happy  leaf-drawn  sighs! 


80 


THE  WINTER  THOUGHTS  OF  TREES 

Do  ye  remember,  or  do  ye  forget, 

O  silent  and  sufficing  ones  —  ye  Trees, 

That  take  and  pass  the  storm  as  summer  breeze? 

The  willing  soil,  the  air,  is  in  your  debt, 

The  very  waters  under  earth  are  set 

To  serve  to  you  all  things  that  best  do  please! 

Wherefore,  ye  stand  erect  in  regal  ease, 

And  parley  not  with  fears  nor  with  regret. 

From  you  the  year  has  date ;  in  you  it  ends  — 
Forever  flows  and  ebbs  in  leafy  green; 
Fain  would  I  know  (and  yet  shall  never  know!) 
If,  now,  the  spirit  in  you  looks  serene, 
Toward  summers  yet  to  be,  or,  blessing,  bends 
Above  the  shedded  leaves  of  long  ago ! 

RESTLESS  ATOMS 

A  spark  of  fire  —  the  six-rayed  star  of  snow  — 
A  world-reflecting  bead  of  crystal  rain  — 
An  atom  dust  —  a  rounded  pollen-grain  — 

The  least  of  seeds  the  wild  wind  takes  to  sow  — 

Regardless  all  these  come,  regardless  go; 
Each  one  but  one  of  an  unnoted  train ; 
And  whether  these  be  loth,  or  those  be  fain, 

No  other  fate  than  Fate  they  seek  to  know. 

They  make  completeness,  and  are  merged  therein; 
Not  so  are  we.     Our  atom  dust-and-fire 
Demandeth  each  his  own  fulfilled  desire; 

And  knowledge  what  he  shall  be  and  hath  been, 

He  turns  himself  in  every  way  to  win, 

Until,  disjoined  from  dust,  the  spark  expire! 


81 


FOOL'S  GOLD 


For  gold  they  delved  the  rugged  mountain  side, 

For  gold  they  washed  the  yellow  river  sand ; 

With  hope,  and  gleaming  ore,  the  grizzled  band 
Took  up  their  march  across  the  desert  wide. 
The  journey  done,  how  did  their  fate  deride! 

They  laid  their  prize  within  the  chemist's  hand, 

With    narrow    gaze    their    prize    the    chemist 

scanned ; 

At  last,  "  O  men,  it  is  fool's  gold !  "  he  cried. 
Thou  Genius  of  my  much-deceived  day, 

I    doubt    not  —  I    who    seek    for    Truth    each 

where  — 
If  some  grim  sage  my  treasure  should  assay, 

I'd  fare  as  ill  as  did  those  miners  fare! 
But  it  may  chance,  before  this  word  can  slay, 

That  gentle  Death  such  detriment  shall  spare. 

»* 

II 

Into  thine  heart,  O  friend,  I  sank  a  shaft, 

And  deemed  I  drew  from  thence  a  thousandfold. 

If  aught  thou  yieldest  me  but  native  gold, 
Conceal  what  thou  hast  done,  with  kindly  craft. 
I  care  not,  I  —  who  shall  have  frowned,  or  laughed, 

That  I  such  dross  for  kingly  metal  hold : 

What  matters,  when  my  sunlit  day  is  told, 
And  I  have  drained  the  long  Lethean  draught? 
But,  while  I  live,  thy  wonted  spell  yet  weave  — 

Ay,  while  I  live,  of  thee  I  do  entreat, 
If  e'er  thy  lips,  thine  eyes,  thine  heart  deceive, 

They  shall  deceive  me  still,  in  accents  sweet! 
If  thou  have  mercy,  to  the  lie  still  cleave, 

And  leash  the  truth  that  runs  with  swift  and 
cruel  feet! 


82 


MERIDIAN 


I  have  been  young;  but  youth  has  passed  from  me; 
Yet  all  Youth  held  I  hold,  and  close  enfold, 
Like  Summer's  sweetness,  dropped  in  cells  of  gold, 
And  hived  within  some  fast  unleafing  tree! 
I  am  not  yet  of  those  who  bend  the  knee 
To  Time,  and  "  respite!  "  cry  —  I  am  not  old, 
Save  by  such  rumors  of  autumnal  cold 
As  turn  the  birds  to  thoughts  of  oversea. 

Compeer  in  age  with  me  —  whoe'er  thou  art ! 
Rejoice,  that  now  the  hour  of  noon  has  struck, 
When  all  things  stand,  and  rest,  at  equipoise, 
Youth  braves  it  not  within  a  fretted  heart, 
Nor  Eld,  with  palsying  fear,  thy  sleeve  doth  pluck: 
Humane  and  mellow  are  thy  noontide  joys. 

II 

"  Would  I  be  young  again?  "     Ah,  no!     Not  I. 
Think'st  thou  the  Summer  bough  would  re-enfold 
Its  leafage,  like  that  magic  tent  of  old 
Which  could  become  a  fan  to  conjure  by? 
The  silent  harvests  that  now  garnered  lie  — 
Think'st  thou  they  would  renounce  their  gathered 

gold, 

To  be  the  bladed  promise  of  the  mold 
Beneath  the  pearly-tinted  April  sky? 

"  Would  I  be  young  again?  "     Ah,  no!     Ah,  no! 
That  were  to  run  into  the  jarring  fray 
Unarmed,  and  take  how  many  a  grievous  blow 
Which  cannot  now  undo,  and  —  well-a-day ! 
It  were  to  learn  again  how  Youth  can  go  — 
The  traitor  whom  no  prayer  nor  gift  can  stay ! 


THE  SECURITY  OF  DESOLATION 

He  who  hath  seen  his  grain-fields  gather  blight 

Heeds  not  the  withering  of  the  garden  flowers; 
He  grieves  not  at  the  day's  withdrawing  light 

Who  in  a  dungeon  numbers  his  dim  hours; 
He  feareth  not  the  storm  upon  his  head, 

Whose  garments  with  the  rough  salt  wave  are 

soaked, 
And  he  whose  fire  within  his  house  is  dead, 

Into  the  outer  air  will  go  uncloaked ! 

So  he  whose  life  some  weak,  loved  hand  has  taken, 
Flies  not  the  shaft  of  banded  myrmidon, 

Nor  trembles  when  his  citadel  is  shaken : 
Foretasting  all,  he  hath  no  more  to  shun ; 

The  Night,  the  Cold,  the  Dearth,  the  Wound  Ob 
scure, 
That  men  call  Death,  unmoved  he  shall  endure! 

A  TALKING  RACE 

I  sent  my  Ariel  round  the  world  in  quest, 

To  find  by  what  main  Virtues  man  is  swayed. 
The  sprite  returned  and  fluttering  answer  made: 

"  I  find  that  Truth  by  Falsehood  is  confessed  ; 
Valor  falls  back,  by  blustering  Cowardice  pressed; 

The  Strong  Ones  yield  where  Weakness  stands 

arrayed ; 
And  Love  between  a  beggar's  hands  has  laid 

His  tribute  —  who  receives  it  with  a  jest." 

"And  wherefore  is  this  so?  "  I  grieving,  asked. 

"  The  Virtues  silent  are ;  much  words  they  shun, 
While  those  who,  in  their  places,  deftly  masked, 

Lead  men  along,  use  plenteous  words  and  fair. 
Man's  is  a  talking  race,  by  talking  won," 

My  Ariel  said  —  and  with  his  wings  beat  air ! 


SPEECH  AND  SILENCE 

There   be,   whose    thoughts   have   eagle   wings   of 
speech, 

Not  hampered  more  than  is  the  eagle's  flight, 

And  followed  far  with  wonder  and  delight; 
Their  sovran  sway  of  hearts  who  would  impeach  ? 
There  be,  who  never  to  their  kind  outreach, 

Self-willed  to  silence,  on  some  native  height. 

There   be   dumb   souls   whose  wistful   eyes,   too 

bright, 
Do  like  the  wounded  fawn's  our  aid  beseech. 

Not  mute  am  I  except  by  force  of  fate; 

For  I  have  words  of  fire,  and  swift  as  flame, 

And  words,   and  words,   and  words,   in  endless 

store, 
That,  leal  and  willing,  on  my  thought  do  wait  ; 

But  I  in  all  the  world  no  ear  may  claim ; 

So  halt  at  home  those  heralds  evermore. 

FROM  LIPS  OF  STONE 

Amid  a  waste  and  solitary  field, 
Upon  the  twilight  boundary  of  the  day, 
Upspake  the  timeless  flintstone  huge  and  gray: 
"  Why  should  my  counsel  be  forever  sealed? 
To  thee  an  ancient  truth  shall  be  revealed  — 
To  thee,  a  wavering  mortal,  brief  of  stay:  — 
Something  of  kin,  —  thou  piece  of  passioned  clay, 
Art  thou  and  I,  whom  passion  ne'er  did  wield; 
For,  lo!  did  not  Deucalion  at  the  flood 
Behind  him  fling  us  stones  —  and  men  we  grew? 
With  limbs  we  moved  abroad,  with  lips  we  spake! 
And  hast  not  thou,  with  grief,  seen  flesh-and-blood 
Become  to  thee  as  stones,  that  Pity's  dew 
Could  never  melt,  nor  yet  thine  anger  break?  " 


OVER  THE  BRINK 

I  shuddered  when  but  now,  again,  I  thought 
(As  oft  before,  till  I  no  more  could  think) 
Of  all  the  myriads  passed  beyond  Time's  brink, 
No  longer  to  be  found  —  scarce  longer  sought  — 
Since  they  who  for  their  loss  with  grief  were  fraught 
So  soon,  themselves,  of  Lethe's  wave  did  drink, 
And  out  of  mortal  ken  forever  sink  — 
Vanished  alike  in  the  abysmal  Nought! 

Why  did  I  shudder?     'Tis  an  ancient  tale. 

They  mused  on  this  in  Tyre,  in  Nineveh, 

And  the  Pelasgic  Cities  longer  gone. 

'Tis  no  strange  theme.     Why  did   I  shudder?  — 

Ah! 

Methought  I  felt  the  ground  beneath  us  fail  — 
As  toward  that  Gulf  of  Silence  we  were  drawn! 

TO  IGNORANCE 

»' 
Hail,  mother  of  the  young  world's  poesy, 

Surveying  earth  and  heaven  with  widening  eyes 
That  saw  sweet  Daphne  in  the  laurel  tree, 

And  Ariadne  in  the  starry  skies, 
Old  Sylvan  leaning  on  his  oaken  staff, 

The  Lares  smiling  through  the  firelight  gleams. 
A  child  among  thy  children  thou  didst  laugh, 

Or  sigh,  or  tremble  —  telling  thy  strange  dreams. 
Come  back,  dear  nurse  of  those  benignant  days, 

There's  still   a  place  that  thou  mayst  call   thy 

own,  — 
'Tis  in  my  heart !    For  of ttimes  science  strays, 

And  oft  the  sage  misleading  paths  has  shown. 
This  knows  the  poet ;  therefore  is  he  free, 

As  bird  or  field-flower  —  and  will  follow  thee! 


66 


PEACE 

Much  I  desired  when  Youth  did  fire  my  veins, 
To  join  fair  combat  with  some  foe  august; 
And  more  I  dreaded  sloth  and  creeping  rust 

Than  any  meed  of  martyr  scorns  and  pains. 

How  would  my  heart  beat  quick  at  clarion  strains; 
All  to  the  God  of  battle  would  I  trust  — 
As  one  who,  midst  the  hissing  barbs  and  dust, 

From  some  swift  Argive  chariot  flung  the  reins ! 

But  now  my  pulse  is  slowed,  my  veins  are  cold, 

0  Spirit  of  the  leafage  silver-green  — 
Now  let  thy  cool  sweet  shadow  intervene, 

That  I  no  more  the  strenuous  day  behold ; 
So  fold  me,  as  the  flocks  that  rest  in  fold, 

While  Hesper  makes  the  darkening  sky  serene. 

ELUSIVE  PRESENCE 

And  didst  thou  come,  thou  long-lost,  longed-for  one, 
That  day  when  (thinking  not  of  thee)  I  cried 
For  respite  from  my  foes  on  every  side  — 
Didst  point  the  refuge  whither  I  could  run? 

And  didst  thou  come,  that  evening  drear  and  dun, 
When  (thinking  not  of  thee  —  too  sorely  tried) 

1  looked  and  saw  the  western  clouds  divide, 
And  the  fair  setting  of  the  full-orbed  sun  ? 

And  didst  thou  come  on  that  dark,  sighing  dawn, 
Shadowed  with  troubles  of  the  day  to-be, 
When,  suddenly,  obeying  thy  still  call, 

Were  all  those  surging  fears  dismissed  and  gone ! 
And  dost  thou  come  all  hours,  and  blessing  all, 
Except  the  hour  when  most  I  think  of  thee? 


WHERE? 


If  nothing,  once  create,  be  ever  lost, 

But  holds  its  being  yet  somewhere  in  space, 

Ah,  set  me  on  the  fine  elusive  trace 

Of  Beauty's  unreturning  myriad  host ! 

Anoint  mine  eyes,  that  I  may  see  the  ghost 

Of  last  year's  rose,  and  all  the  tender  race 

Of  flowers  that  in  some  paradisal  place 

Forget  the  flame  of  drought,  the  scourge  of  frost! 

Tell  where  is  fled  the  perfume  of  the  rose  ? 

Where  lives  the  carol  of  the  long-flown  bird  ? 

Where  now  the  sunset  gold  of  yestereve  ? 

Why  speak  of  these  ?     What  magic  shall  disclose 

Where  dwells  the  voice  that  so  my  being  stirred, 

The  light  of  those  lost  eyes  for  which  mine  grieve  ? 

FAR  OTHERWHERE 

II 

Far  otherwhere,  at  some  unknown  still  tide  — 

Not  morn,  nor  eve,  nor  windless  noon,  of  ours; 

Unknown  the  hour,  unknown  the  springing  flowers 

And  the  sweet  odors  borne  from  every  side  — 

Far  hence  I  met  her,  the  beloved  who  died ! 

At  sight  of  her  the  tears  fell  in  warm  showers. 

"  Be  praise,"  I  cried,  "  unto  the  Heavenly  Powers 

That  sent  at  last  great  Death  to  be  my  guide!  " 

Then  raised  she  her  deep  eyes  —  all  my  lost  light ! 

Then  slowly  did  she  turn  her  shining  head : 

"  Whence  comest  thou,  and  who?  "  she  softly  said  — 

She,  the  beloved!  —  I,  stranger  in  her  sight! 

The  while  I  gazed,  the  vision  paled  and  fled, 

And  round  me  trembled  the  wide,  startled  night. 


88 


MEMORY  AND  THE  FULL  MOON 

O  Nights  of  silver  memory  —  O  Nights !  — 
Here  at  this  casement  (as  of  old)  I  stand, 
And  greet  the  moon  at  full,  flooding  the  land 

With  mystery  and  unmeasured  dream-delights, 

But    they    who    with    me    gazed    on    those    green 

heights  — 
Distanced  in  moonlight  —  while  the  night  wind 

bland 
Rare  incense  from  deep  forest  altars  fanned  — 

Ah,  whither  gone,  with  giddy  seasons'  flights  ? 

Intenser  than  of  old  thy  burning  orb, 

Thou  planet  lone  in  star- forgetting  skies ! 

Each  ray  from  thee  with  tender  purport  smites : 
Say,  didst  thou  not  those  love-lit  souls  absorb, 
Wherefore  thy  splendor  aches  against  mine  eyes? 
O  Nights  of  silver  memory  —  O  Nights! 


89 


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